Witch's Trial: The Ring of Arinoth Book 1
by C. Allen White
Summary: Chapter 25 - 26 now up. THE EXCITING CONCLUSION! Will it be too late?! Will Buffy do the unthinkable? Is Spike the key? Feedback Welcome!
1. Title Prologue

Title / Prologue

Buffy the Vampire Slayer:

Witch's Trial

The Ring of Arinoth Book 1

C. Allen White

Based on the Hit Television Series Created by Joss Whedon

  


Copyright © 2002, C. Allen White. All Rights Reserved.

This is an original work based on the characters created by Joss Whedon. Use of the characters and situations in this work fall under the "fair use" provisions of U.S. Copyright law provided it is freely distributed.

This work may only be distributed in its current form and with all copyright notices in place. No fee may be charged for this work.

  


            To every generation is given a Slayer, a young woman called to fight the vampires and demons of darkness, and gifted with the strength, speed, and skill to do so. To every Slayer is appointed a Watcher, a keeper of the histories and legends, to train, guide, and ultimately bury her.

             In the moment of her death, a new Slayer is called.

  


Table of Contents

Prologue

1. Combat Magic

2. Secret Operations

3. Rainy Days and Mondays

4. Assembly

5. Amends

6. The Mission

7. Test Preparation

8. Convergence

9. Who's Afraid of Big Bad Spike?

10. The Hit

11. Complications

12. A New Kind of Demon

13. The Amulet

14. Target: Spike

15. The Plan

16. Tensions

17. Infiltration

18. Captives

19. Dark Rescue

20. Who to Trust?

21. The Legend of Arinoth

22. The Confrontation

23. The Escape

24. Showdow

25. Witch's Trial

26. All's Well that Ends

  


Continuity Note

This story takes place during season five of Buffy, between the episodes _Into the Woods_ and _Triangle_. 

This is not intended to be an Alternate Universe story – every effort has been made to fit it into the television series continuity. Error or omissions affecting continuity are entirely unintentional and can be corrected or explained by the author. This section will be updated with continuity updates.

            Continuity Errors and Explanations:

1. _Willow_ and __Tara___ never shared a dorm room. _

While Willow and Tara were never shown to be officially assigned to the same room by UC Sunnydale, their relationship and hints in other episodes provide ample evidence that Willow spent a great deal of time (and likely nights) in Tara's room. It is not a stretch to speculate that they acquired things together which would need to be stored in one room or the other. In order to be more correct, the modifier "quasi" has been added to the sentence in chapter 3.

  


Prologue

"I call upon thee, a single flame, to guard against the night." 

No sooner had the soft female voice intoned the words than the wax candle gripped in her hands ignited, seemingly of its own accord. The single point of light cast a small circle of luminescence around the holder. Her face was hidden deep in the shadows of the cowl of the pale blue robe she wore, but the hands that gripped the candle were clearly those of a young woman. She sat at a table, her hands and the candle resting lightly on the crimson velvet cloth that covered it. Small traceries of gold could be just seen in the meager light, but nothing else was visible beyond the small circle the flame cast. All to the left and right was unfathomably dark.

After several heartbeats, a voice to her left spoke. The voice was a rich bass, bringing to mind images of Atlantic islands like Jamaica and the strong, black men who lived there. "I call upon thee, a single flame, to aid me in this fight." Just as with the first, this candle lit itself, casting its light on a pair of strong, ebony hands. And like the female to his right, this man was cloaked in pale blue, with only his hands visible.

To his left, another took up the incantation. "I call upon thee, a single flame, to guide me in the dark." Then spoke four more, each in their turn, clockwise around the table. _To burn in me a mark, to arm me with the truth, to let me have the proof, to accomplish so this feat_, they spoke one at a time. Around the table, seven pairs of hands were bathed in small pools of light.

There was a longer pause before the eighth member spoke. The voice of the last was strong, but oddly accented. It was at once pleasing and melodious, but also laced with such power that the others trembled at the sound of it. "I call upon thee, a single flame," the voice spoke in a deliberate, measured pace. The whole room seemed to tingle in anticipation of the completion of the spell. His voice rose, louder than the rest, a rumble not unlike thunder, as the final phrase was spoken –

"Let the ring be complete!"

Like the others, his candle sprang to life of its own accord. However, this lasted only a moment. The flame jumped from his candle and raced to the center of the circular table. After, only the briefest moment, the other seven flames leapt from their candles and raced to the table's middle. Colliding, they grew into a cluster of flame about the size and shape of a disembodied heart, and floated in that form just above the surface of the crimson cloth. They burned like this, a hear of flame floating in mid-air, for the space of ten heartbeats. Then, the eighth voice spoke again, a single guttural word, and the heart expanded.  It shot out in all directions, passing through those seated around the table, and formed a spherical, flaming enclosure just beyond them.

"The ring is formed once again," the eighth man said to the others, "within this form we have the power to fulfill our mission."

The ritual completed, the candles disappeared from view. The flames surrounding them gave sufficient illumination to see clearly, although everyone settled even further back into the shadows of their hoods. There was some brief shuffling as the members settled in for a lengthier meeting. Finally, the eighth to speak, clearly the leader of the small coven, called them to order.

"What is the status of Eve?"  he asked.

The fourth in the circle, a man of middle years to judge by the voice and hands, cleared his throat. "We have moved to take custody of Eve, but an enemy is blocking us through political channels." He was clearly uncomfortable delivering bad news to the group. "We have hoped that perhaps – "

He was cut off by the sharp motion of the leader's hand, an impatient dismissal. "That is enough Number Four," the leader said harshly. He turned instead to the woman on his right. "And what of the pilot project?"

"We have secured access to her and are ready to begin the first phase," she replied confidently. Her position in the circle was earned through delivering on her assignments. This was something the Fourth Speaker would need to learn if he hoped to stay in the ring.

"Excellent," the leader replied. "Perhaps now the best way to test our pilot project would be to remove this political obstacle that is getting in the way of our rescuing Eve, wouldn't you say?"

"A wise choice, Creator of the Circle," the Seventh Speaker relied. "And when we are done with the test, what of the pilot project?"

"She is expendable," the Creator of the Circle replied coldly.

***

Congressman Jackson Greene watched the demon approach him. He looked carefully at the face as it marched into his office and headed towards him, noting every detail. The demon stopped in front of him and waited, its green scales seeming to change color in the fluorescent light. After a moment, Congressman Greene spoke.

"You're looking a little pink in the gills there, Ray. Are you coming down with something?" The Congressman reached his hand out, and the demon handed him the manila file folder he was carrying.

"I think it's all the traveling," the Demon replied. "I always get like this when we fly." He scratched at his gills irritably.

"You should see the family shaman about it," the Congressman relied evenly as he began looking at the contents of the file. Inside were three pieces of paper. The first was a fax bearing only the words, "Beware the Ring of Arinoth," upon it. The second, was a transfer request from a medical clinic in London claiming to have a treatment for certain disorders, and requesting the release of certain prisoners into their custody – prisoners whom they believe suffer from the disorder and can be successfully cured. The last was a four-page brief on certain demonic legends.

"There's nothing new there," the demon volunteered. "I just collected everything we already had and typed up what we'd talked about."

"All right," said the congressman, handing the file back to the demon. "This doesn't look good. For right now, though, let's just keep this under wraps and see if we can't figure out what were up against." He sighed.

"Okay boss. How do you want this filed?" asked the demon.

"Let's put it under 'S' – for 'Slayer.'"

  



	2. Chapter 1 Combat Magic

**  
** Chapter 1 

Combat Magic

Sunnydale - May 10th 

            Willow Rosenberg was sure she was about to die. 

Pain riddled her small body as she writhed away from the many-tentacled creature advancing on her. The acrid smoke of ozone from a torn power cable mixed with the other scents of her own burnt flesh, blood, sweat and fear. She breathed in ragged gasps, looking about in a panicked plea for rescue. She lay prone on the concrete floor of a warehouse, only vaguely aware of her surroundings. What parts of her mind not focused on escape were attempting to track the movements of the demon she was fighting.

Its body was vaguely humanoid – it walked on two shambling legs, had two long arms and only one head. However, all resemblance ended there. Its skin was gray and deformed, like it had been made badly from modeling clay. The head held two large, black eyes that tracked her unblinkingly. No mouth was apparent, but a wail emitted from the rapidly quivering polyps that hung from its chin like a scraggly beard. It was clothed in a long, ragged robe the same color as its skin. This was all of secondary concern to Willow, though. Her frantic eyes attempted to track its arms.

The arms were what really set this creature apart. Or, more precisely, what at first appeared to be arms. They were, in fact, a collection of tentacles wrapped together and attached to its shoulders. Looking back, Willow would remember how it had at first seemed to have two squids attached to it. "Ooh, calamari," she had said rakishly when she first saw it. But her humor was short-lived.

To begin with, the tentacles could reach nearly twenty feet when fully extended. She had come to realize this when she attempted to close range on the creature. She also came to understand that it could shoot out those tentacles very quickly. The creature moved them like a bullwhip, with a seemingly lazy movement to begin with that was lightning fast at its end. The effect of tentacles at that speed would be as bad, if not worse, than a whip across the flesh. Willow had braced for that after magically deflecting the first attack. She knew it might hurt.

What she hadn't counted on was the poison. It burned her skin like acid and brought up bleeding welts almost immediately. The shock of the strike subsided into the agony of the poison. It had contracted her chest until she was hyperventilating just to stay awake. She knew she was only moments from blacking out, and then she would be dead.

But she couldn't allow herself to fail. Buffy and Giles and Tara – especially Tara – were depending on her. She spared a brief glance over her shoulder at them all standing there, watching and waiting for the outcome. She could see concern, fear even, on every face and knew she had to do better. Every face but one, that is. Madame LaFusce watched smugly, jotting notes on her clipboard.

Madame LaFusce. She had to beat this creature, if for no other reason than to wipe the infuriating, self-important grin off that woman's face.

Looking back at the creature advancing on her, she saw that it had drawn near a loose electrical cable. It slowed its advance and shuffled sideways to avoid it. Willow couldn't quite tell, but it looked afraid of the sparking wire. It wasn't much, but it was the only opportunity that had presented itself so far. She was going to take it.

Still lying prone, the young witch propped herself up on one elbow and pointed at the cable. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she spoke a single word, "Strike!" The cable leapt from its position on the floor and flew through the air like a viper. The tentacled creature attempted to avoid it, but the movement was too sudden. It struck the creature full in the chest. Sparks flew everywhere. The wail being emitted from its chin rose to an unholy pitch, and then suddenly ceased. Behind her, Willow sensed the circuit breakers exploding in the wall panel, cutting off the current.

But what current there had been was enough. The creature was dead. Willow fell back and let out her breath. The pain was still incredible, but the thrill of success flooded her body with endorphins and adrenalin, giving her some focus back. Mustering her strength, she rolled over and got to all fours, gulping air from the effort.

She struggled to one knee and was about to attempt standing when she heard a polyphonic wail approaching. Looking about, she moaned in despair. Three more creatures were approaching, and the power was dead in the building.

They moved on her from three separate directions, and before she could quite digest what was happening, they had moved into striking distance. Her mind whirled through a series of counter spells, selecting and rejecting them as fast as she could think. When their arms began the slow roll leading to the attack, she shouted out her spell.

"_Duplicatum obscurus transportio!" _

Her voice rang like thunder. To those watching closely, her eyes had gone completely black. If Madame LaFusce noticed, she gave no indication. The effect was immediate – five "Willow"s appeared where there had been only one a moment before. They were all in the same position on one knee, arranged with four equally placed around a fifth, central Willow. In unison, they all stood unsteadily to their feet. Every movement among the five was identical.

In the back of the warehouse, Madame LaFusce made a note on the clipboard. Rupert Giles, standing next to her, looked over at it. 

"I don't think you really grasp the complexity of what she just did," he said calmly with his aristocratic British accent. His eyes, though, were filled with anxiety. A single trickle of sweat descended down his temple.

"Hmmph," Madame LaFusce replied dismissively. "Simple trickery. The korlorf demons will make short work of her pitiful illusion."

The korlorf demons were true to her words. In quick, slashing strokes of their whip-like arms they cut through the four illusions, leaving only the center Willow standing. She was clearly panicked, looking about anxiously. But though surrounded by the demons, she continued to mutter a spell under her breath, hoping to get one last shot off. She raised one hand, palm upwards, chest high, and a small bundle of blue lighting began to form.

With her movement, the pitch of the wail from the korlorf demons increased. Then they struck. All three whipped their tentacles at the lone Willow standing in the center of them. The three sets of tentacles struck simultaneously with the force of a thunderclap. Willow, however, disappeared.

Everyone stared dumbstruck as the fifth Willow turned out to be an illusion as well. Everyone but Giles, who had anticipated Willow's ploy as soon as he heard the spell she had cast. Seeing that the tentacles of the three korlorf demons had become tangled, he called out, "Now, Willow!"

He needn't have. At the same moment, Willow stepped out a few paces from the demons, seemingly from thin air. In her hands, a great ball of blue lightning floated just above her palm. In two great strides she reached the tangled mass of demon appendages. With all her strength, she threw the ball of lightning into its center.

The lightning ran back along the limbs in a sudden storm of St. Elmo's Fire. The force of the electricity blew the three backwards in separate directions. One collided with a stack of crates, one with a warehouse wall, and one landed in a heap on the floor thirty feet away. All three were smoking husks and quite dead.

Tears of exhaustion and pain streamed down Willow's face as she fell to her knees. Slowly she teetered and collapsed. The last effort was more than her body, already beaten and poisoned, could handle. Her last thought, as darkness closed upon her, was of Madame LaFusce. "And to think I asked for this," she said softly, and then passed out.

Giles looked over at the stark, critical maven standing next to him. He regarded her carefully, judging how to express his displeasure, when he noticed her scribbling on the clipboard. The duplication spell Willow had cast had been revised. Where the original rating of one had been now stood a five, with a complicated note next to it he couldn't quite make out. The last spell rated a four, but an annotation marked it a seven for power. Giles held his remarks, but Madame LaFusce caught his stare.

"You were right, Mr. Giles," she said. "I am not sure how she was able to shortcut those three spells into a simple incantation, but it was quite complicated." Her voice was fragile, and accented with French in a way that reminded Rupert of his maternal grandmother. But her eyes were cold steel, and they seemed sharpened in his direction for the comments he had made earlier. "And you see," she said coldly, "I am quite capable of making my own judgments about the applicant."

She turned her steel eyes on Tara, standing next to her. "Now then, let's see about you."

Tara swallowed hard and began to stammer. "I don't do combat magic," she managed to choke out, glancing with heartbreak at the collapsed form of her lover on the concrete floor.

"Do you think I do not know this?" Madame LaFusce demanded caustically. "Let's see if you can heal her," she said, gesturing vaguely in Willow's direction, "or at least manage to revive her." She regarded Tara coldly for a long moment. "Now!" she snapped, and Tara broke from the old woman's cold gaze to go run to her beloved.

Kneeling next to Willow's collapsed form, she moved the red-headed witch's head into her lap. Slowly she brushed the hair from Willow's forehead, and then inscribed a symbol on it with ash she took from a pouch at her side. Then she began reciting a spell in a soft crooning voice.

The spell was one that she and Willow had developed together. It took bits and pieces of other healing spells, but was made unique by the bond they shared. The spell used their love for one another to magnify the healing virtues of the other spells. She ran through it once with her hands on Willow's cheeks. The second time she held Willow's hands. The third time, she placed her hands on Willow's heart.

With the third incantation, a fine mist formed around them. Tara continued the chant, moving in a cycle from holding Willow's face, hands, and heart. On the third cycle, the mist dispelled, and Willow opened her eyes.

"How're you doing, baby?" Tara asked softly.

"Huh?" Willow scrunched up her forehead to assess why her lover would ask such an odd question. Then, suddenly, her memories caught up with the present, and she scrambled up to look for her attackers.

"It's all over, Will," Tara, still kneeling, reassured her. "You beat them."

"Oh," Willow said, slowly trying to return to normalcy. She tugged on the sleeve of her sweater self-consciously. "Okay. And hey, you healed me." She brightened at that, and smiled at Tara. "Did you use the spell we made?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," Tara nodded as Willow helped her to her feet. The stood facing each other, holding hands, as Tara demurred. "It was the only thing I could think of. I mean, you were so hurt, and I was so scared, and we were being graded and everything."

Willow reached up and brushed a misbehaving lock of hair out of Tara's eyes. "You did great, baby. I'm so proud of you." Tara smiled shyly. Willow looked deep into her eyes, realizing once again how lucky they both were to have found one another. She leaned in to kiss her love.

"Time enough for that later," Madame LaFusce said, standing so close that both Tara and Willow jumped. "Such inattention," she continued reprovingly, "is exceeded only by your ignorance of demons." She then turned on Rupert. "I can't believe you would have endorsed their application, Mister Giles. I really don't find this kind of waste of time at all to my liking."

Giles took off his glasses and began to clean them as he struggled for words.

"Hey, they kicked butt," Buffy Summers, the Slayer, chimed in for him. "I may not know a lot about witchcraft," she continued, moving in front of Giles to address the petit Frenchwoman, "but I know about killing demons, and that was some A-1 slaying."

Buffy was the latest in the line of Slayers. She was a small, blonde woman of college age. In fact, she attended Sunnydale University – when she wasn't busy killing one of the many foul creatures that made Sunnydale their home. Buffy wasn't like other Slayers, who historically worked alone, having only a watcher for companionship. Buffy had collected a small cadre of friends, each one gifted in their own special way. Willow was her oldest and closest friend, along with Alexander 'Xander' Harris. They were the two people Buffy had met first when she'd moved to Sunnydale. The only person she was closer to was Rupert Giles, her watcher.

Sunnydale wasn't like other towns, either. It was centered on a hellmouth, a mystical convergence of energies and an entryway to demonic dimensions. More evil, and more power, was concentrated in Sunnydale than nearly any other place in the world. Buffy depended on her friends, her so called 'scooby gang', and she would defend them from anyone or anything.

A voice chimed in from the back, "Well I do know about witchcraft, and that was pretty good."  Anya did, indeed, know about witchcraft. Her own spell-casting against her old fiancé Olaf had turned him into a troll. That had earned her a job as a vengeance demon for over 1000 years, until she had been defeated by the Scooby gang. No one qute new how she had earned the job, only that she had been a demon and was now a mortal. Anya had come to find life as a mortal somewhat constraining, but not without rewards. She had a steady boyfriend in Buffy's friend Xander, and it held promise for more. And while she no longer practiced magic herself, she understood it well enough to appreciate its use by others.

Xander was about to add to the defense of his two friends when Giles put up a hand to stop him. "Before this gets out of hand, we might want to listen to what Madame LaFusce has to say. While she can be somewhat critical, I'm sure it is not without reason. Isn't that right, Madame?"

Madame LaFusce looked disdainfully at Buffy, Anya, and Xander, and then dismissed them with a sniff. When she spoke next, she very pointedly addressed only Giles. "The girls are, as you indicated, very powerful. The redheaded one demonstrates some very advanced techniques, as you pointed out. But technique and power are hardly the makings of a good witch. The fact is, in the five simulations I have conjured for her to face, she did not recognize a single enemy." _She has a point, Anya interjected, but everyone ignored her. "The korlorf demons, for instance, are fairly well known – as is their weakness. While she eventually figured out how to fight them, it was more luck that led to that revelation than knowledge. If you don't know what you're facing, how can you hope to overcome it? Had they been actual korlorf demons, rather than my conjurings, I should hesitate to think what kind of shape she would be in._

"No, Mr. Giles, these girls are not ready to be tested any further."

Willow swallowed convulsively. _It can't end like this_, he brain screamed. _It just can't._ After all the work, all the preparation, everything she'd been through, it simply couldn't end like this. He mind whirled, rushing headlong through a hundred thoughts until it hit upon the one that was really bugging her the most. "When?" she said to herself softly, "When did it all start going wrong?"

  
  



	3. Chapter 2 Secret Operations

**  
** Chapter 2 

Secret Operations

England – 10 Days Before

Major Tom Sheffield walked in a quick yet unhurried pace through the walls of the Special Air Service Directorate building outside London. No matter where he went, or how quickly he needed to move, the Major never appeared to hurry. Hurrying was, to him, a cardinal sin. It implied a lack of control; that circumstances had somehow slipped beyond your immediate grasp. Even if they had, they should never appear like it.

Appearances were more than just a vanity to Sheffield. People gathered intelligence by your appearance. They found out things about you from how you looked: things that could be used against you. So Sheffield, in every circumstance, projected an image of control. No matter what was happening around him, he was the 'Teflon Man.' What he didn't share, others couldn't use.

Most people inside or outside of London in this day and age would have found such thinking paranoid. Most would have been right. For Sheffield and his men, though, it was about survival. Sheffield had spent the better part of the last fifteen years in hostile country, operating covertly on missions of such dire secrecy and discretion he would not even admit them to himself deep in the dead of night. Sheffield lived life on a razor's edge where any loss of control could result in death or something even worse. But he'd found that you didn't always have to actually have control, as long as everyone else _thought_ you did. As soon as the enemy suspected that you didn't, you were sunk.

He turned smartly on his heel at an intersection of the large marble floors and continued with the same measured pace down another corridor. The building was, to all observers, easily navigated. The corridors were straight, intersecting at regular intervals. Along them were regularly spaced office doors, each clearly marked. What the casual observer did not know about, would never know about, was the building within the building.

Sheffield took another smart turn at a minor corridor leading to the refresher facilities and few phone booths. These were the old style booths, made of dark wood, and allowed the caller to stand inside fully with the door closed. Sheffield walked directly to the one on the end of the row, stepped in, and shut the door. He picked up the receiver and dialed in his access code. A tone sounded on the other end, and he spoke, "Major Thomas Sheffield." He received an answering tone on the phone, and hung it up.

The back wall of the booth slid open, and Sheffield turned about and walked through it into a different, hidden corridor. On either side of that particular entryway stood two armed guards. The Major stopped and showed them his identification card, which they swiped into a portable reader and then held it up to his eye. He looked into the reader for a moment while his retina was scanned, and then the device beeped once and lit a green light.

The guard handed him back the identification and then saluted. "Good Morning, Major," the man said in his crisp British accent.

Sheffield returned the salute. "Good Morning, Brad," he said. "How'd the game go Saturday?"

"We lost three to two," he replied.

"Sounds like you need a new keeper," Sheffield replied. "East Section can't aim for crap!"

"Job's open, if you want it," Brad responded, smiling.

"Maybe someday, Brad, but not today," Sheffield said. He turned and walked off. He couldn't and wouldn't share with anyone what his schedule for coming and going was. He didn't know until it was time to leave most of the time. Someday, though, he'd be able to join a football team. Someday, but not today.

He navigated this interior corridor with the same confidence that he displayed on the exterior corridors. He'd been through them enough to know every crack in the floor, every name on every door. He climbed a set of stairs leading to the floor above, took a right, and strode down that corridor to a non-descript door at the end of the hall. He knocked once, and then let himself in. 

An immaculately turned out Lieutenant sat at the desk typing. The young man's resemblance to a certain Vice-Admiral of the Royal Navy was unmistakable. Sheffield couldn't say that the boy would get less special treatment by being in the Royal Air Force, but he liked to think so. Still, his connection to the Vice-Admiral helped him attain the very highest of security clearances. The Lieutenant stood up and saluted. "He'll see you now," was all he said.

Sheffield turned and walked through the interior door to the spacious office of Sir Radcliffe Holm. Sir Radcliffe held no official military rank _per se. However, for as long as Sheffield could remember, 'Director of Special Projects' Holm had kept an office in this building – this very office, come to think of it – and dispensed orders to the RAF with neither pause nor qualm._

No one really knew his background, but everyone knew to fear him. He was a singular power in the machine that drove both politics and the military in Great Britain. His orders were never questioned; his decisions were never reviewed. No one ever interfered with his work.

At the moment, Holm had his back turned to the door and was studying a file of some great interest to him. He didn't turn as Sheffield entered, or so much as lift his head. He simply said, "Have a seat Sheffield, we have much to discuss."

Sheffield sat on one of the antique wood and leather chairs that were opposite the man's desk. The desk itself was as immaculate as the shelves were cluttered. The room was well lit from several lamps placed about, but still held a dark, brooding sense of plots and counterplots, secrets and lies. Holm turned eventually, and looked at Sheffield with a smile.

"Tom," he said expansively, "it's been too long. How are you?" The old Sir Radcliffe was dressed in a simple black suit, slightly out of date in its style. His hair was white and thinning, but then again it had been that way the entire time Sheffield had known him.

"Sir Radcliffe," Sheffield replied with a nod. "No complaints. How about you?"

"No complaints indeed," the elder man said. "After that operation in the Balkans last month, I'd not believe that. The intelligence section has an awful lot to account for in that one."

"I really can't comment on that Operation, Sir Radcliffe. You know that," Sheffield replied calmly.

"I do indeed," Sir Radcliffe replied, nodding. "I have another operation for you, Tom. This one should be a real cakewalk; a vacation practically."

"What's wrong with it?" Sheffield said, knowing full well that he wouldn't have been called in on a 'cakewalk' assignment. Sheffield knew that he was reserved for the most difficult of tasks.

Sir Radcliffe folded his hands before him. "It's politically sensitive. Very hush, hush, you know. One of those 'you were never there' assignments." Radcliffe paused a moment and waggled his eyebrows. "You can pick your own team. I'll send Captain MacKenzie along with you; he has the psych background for what is required. Everyone else will be up to you."

Sheffield smiled. Captain "Mac" MacKenzie was known to specialize in missions involving 'nontraditional' elements. He convinced voodoo men in Africa to supply information on the drug trade and talked druids in MacKenzie's native Scotland to turn in suspected ecoterrorists. Magic and other such nonsense was Mac's stock in trade. 

Sheffield considered for a moment. All his missions were top secret. He was never to reveal his presence anywhere he went. Foreign governments didn't appreciate SAS teams running about their country. So, why specifically label this one as such? "They're all hush, hush," Sheffield replied. "What's different about this one? Who are we dropping in on that will get so upset about our visit?"

Radcliffe smiled. He loved Sheffield's mind. "The Americans," he responded. "You're going to California. Sunnydale, to be precise."

* * *

Captain MacKenzie sat in the back room of a tiny pub near King's Cross station sipping whisky and holding a hand of cards. The smoke in the room was thick and smelled vaguely of spices. In one corner, a gang of Indian's talked quietly and sipped from a water pipe. They were waiting for their contact to the spirit world, a shaman named Radu. MacKenzie was waiting for Radu as well.

He turned back to his hand and the pot in the center of the table. He knew the game was rigged; but with patience, hard earned skill, and more than a little luck, he had drawn into an inside straight and was ready to bust the bank at the table. He wasn't even going to scratch what the place as a whole took in each day, but he would win his stake back three times over.

The last round of bets were going around when Radu entered. Mac cursed under his breath. He needed two more minutes in this game to win. But halfway across the room, Radu saw him. Recognition crossed the man's face and he turned to run. Mac set his cards face down, stood, and drew his .45 all in one motion.

"Game's up, Radu," he said. "You sold out the wrong side in Sri Lanka."

Radu turned to face him, looked wildly about for a moment, and then reached into his sleeve. He pulled out out a small, twisted twig and began chanting in Hindi. Out of the end of it erupted the ghostly form of a tiger, which headed directly for Mac.

Without turning, Mac reached behind him and grabbed a salt shaker from the tray of food behind him. He tossed it in the air and fired, all in the space of a heartbeat. The shaker disintegrated into dust as the bullet hit it, spreading salt everywhere. The ghostly tiger hit a spray of salt and shredded into whips of smoke.

The Indians in the booth next to him began to chatter. "I'm no magician, lads," he said to them. "That's just widows' magic. Everyone knows that kind of conjuring won't stand up to a bit of salt." He turned his attention back to the trembling figure of Radu. "Let's not make this hard, aye? Just kneel down right there and I willna need to kill you."

Radu obeyed, sinking slowly to his knees and dropping the twig. Mac put his pistol back into his coat. Then he looked down at the table and picked up three chips from his pile. He tossed them into the center of the table. "Call," he said, flipped his cards over, and smiled. "Aye," he said to no one in particular, "this is turnin' into a fine, fine day."

  
  



	4. Chapter 3 Rainy Days and Mondays

**  
** Chapter 3 

Rainy Days and Mondays

Sunnydale – April 30th

"Willow, wake up!" Tara implored. "We have to get to class. There's a prelim for the final. C'mon sweetie, we need to go." Tara nudged the sleeping form again. For her own part, Tara was up and dressed and had already eaten breakfast. Willow had promised to get up and meet Tara in the cafeteria, but she had never made it. Now, with only ten minutes left until class, Tara had run back to the dorm to find her quasi-roommate / lover still asleep in their bed.

"Five more minutes," Willow mumbled in her sleep.

"No," Tara said firmly. "You don't have five more minutes."

Willow rolled over and cracked an eye at Tara. "You're already dressed," she mumbled. "When did you get dressed?"

"An hour ago, Will. C'mon, we're already going to be late."

"Late for what?" Willow asked, her grip on consciousness fading tenuously.

"For class," Tara answered, growing exasperated.

"Class?" Willow asked. "But it's Sunday."

"Willow, it's Monday. It's ten minutes to nine on _Monday_ morning."

"Oh crap," said Willow. She immediately began to hyperventilate. "But … but I'm not awake. I'm not ready. Mr. Johnson has a prelim for the final today. What am I going to do?" Tears began to form in Willow's eyes.

"Calm down sweetie," Tara said. "We can do this, just get up, throw on some clothes, and we'll get to class." She was trying to be reasonable, but a cautious glance over at the clock gave away her own apprehension.

"Wait!" Willow said suddenly. She pinched her brow in deep thought for a moment. "Grab me some Rosemary, quick."

"Willow, are you sure?" Tara asked.

"This is an emergency," Willow said firmly. "C'mon, hurry."

Tara walked over to the old wooden chest in the corner of the room. They had found it at an antique shop one afternoon for more than they could afford. It was perfect for holding their spell components, and they were disheartened that they couldn't afford it. The owner had noticed their interest in the piece, though, and had struck up a brief conversation.

"You girls like this one?" he'd asked.

"Yeah, a lot," Tara had replied enthusiastically. "But it's more than we can afford."

"Well, you don't want it anyway," the owner had replied. "This one's haunted," he'd said with great solemnity. "Of course, with all the antiques I have coming and going through here, the whole place is haunted. Every time I turn around, some spirit or other is making mischief."

"What kind of mischief?" Willow had asked curiously.

"Swapping price tags, for one" he'd replied, warming to the fact that there was someone who believed him. "Or hiding things as soon as a customer asks for them. Knocking things over, or scaring folks away. One keeps writing in my ledger, 'Mlle come back,' over and over and over. Damned inconvenient." He had nodded emphatically, as if the whole matter were settled. "Anyways," he'd added, "I wouldn't sell this to two nice girls like you. The spirit as came in this one is particularly vile."

"How so?" Willow had asked, only to immediately jump with a shriek. "It grabbed me!" she'd shouted. "On my … my … well it grabbed me, let's just leave it at that."

"Told ya," the owner had replied.

"We could help you out," Tara had said suddenly. "We can cleanse the place."

"I've heard that before," the old proprietor had replied.

"We can guarantee it," Tara had said, looking over at Willow for confirmation. "We'll do the cleansing and then come back in a week. If the spirits are gone, you give us the chest."

The work had been simple, but time consuming. However, the results of one lost Saturday had netted them this chest, a dresser, and several boxes of books as well. They had immediately put their spell components into the chest, arranging them in smaller boxes and bottles for easy access. From one of these bottles, Tara withdrew the rosemary Willow had asked for.

"Here you go," she said, bringing it over.

Willow took it and wrapped it with a bit of ribbon she'd picked up from her nightstand, and combined placed this in her lap. She closed her eyes and settled a vision of herself - showered, dressed, and ready for the day – in her mind. With a deep intake of breath, she began to chant.

"_Flower green and ribbon smooth_

_An offering, Dianna, to thee_

_To adorn thy noble brow_

_In eternal beauty_

_In return I ask of you_

_Give to me I pray_

_Make me likewise arrayed_

_And ready for the day."___

A small flash of light in her lap consumed the offering and transformed her into her vision. She hopped out of bed, feeling quite refreshed and ready for class. She grabbed her books and the two girls ran off across campus, hoping to be no more than five minutes late.

* * *

They wandered out of the lecture hall at eleven, exhausted. The prelim had been specifically designed to demoralize the students. The test itself was worth ten percent of their grade, and few would do better than a C. However, it would give them a taste for the final exam, which was worth a quarter of the grade. The gaps in their knowledge so painfully pointed out, they would spend the next two weeks studying.

Buffy was waiting at the door of the hall as the class shuffled out with their heads bowed low. She smiled briefly when Willow and Tara emerged. "Who died?" she asked.

"Hell-test," Willow murmured. "Compare and contrast the social, political, economic, and military aspects of the Greek, Roman, and the Byzantine empires," she quoted.

"The Romans had more toga parties," Buffy supplied helpfully.

"Actually, Greeks and Byzantines were fond of them also," Tara supplied.

Willow's stomach growled. "Forgot to envision breakfast," she said.

Buffy looked quizzically at her and raised her hand shoulder high. "Lost," she said.

"Sorry Buffy," Willow replied. "I kinda overslept this morning and had to get ready via magic. You know, whoof, poof, and you're dressed."

"Really? You can do that?" Buffy was impressed. "I need to learn that one. An extra hour of sleep could come in handy when I've spent the night in patrolsville."

"Willow and I spent the night studying," Tara replied.

"Hence the good answer on the toga question," Buffy affirmed.

"Actually, we were studying for the _other_ exam coming up," Willow said.

"Yeah," Tara confirmed. "I kinda fell asleep about one o'clock. I don't know how long Willow was up."

"Five," Willow supplied. "Going over basic incantations for combat situations. There's some really interesting ones in there."

"So, you're really going to go through with it? The Witch's Trial," Buffy asked.

"Absolutely," Willow replied. "As soon as Giles mentioned that the Watchers' Council does witch certifications, I knew I needed to do it."

"Even though you know it's dangerous?" Buffy asked. "Giles said the trials can get out of control, you know. I mean, you have to fight demons, and even another witch. There's no way to control those kinds of circumstances. Things can happen. Bad thing. Besides, look at what happened to me. The Watchers don't have a great track record in this area."

When Buffy turned eighteen, she underwent a trial by the Watcher's. Unlike the test that Willow and Tara were going to pursue, hers had not been voluntary. Unbeknownst to her, she had been given a chemical mixture that took away her Slayer powers. Then she'd been locked in a house with a crazed vampire. She had walked away alive, but not all the watchers had.

The watchers who had been keeping the creature prior to the trial had all been killed, and one of them even turned into a vampire as well. Buffy had passed the test, but Giles hadn't. His job was to watch, to not interfere. However, as soon as he found out that they had lost control of the creature and the test had gone awry, he'd gone in to rescue her. She hadn't needed his rescue, but his disregard for his 'objective' status had gotten him fired as her watcher.

In his place, the Watchers had sent in Wesley Windam Price to supervise her. That was possibly an even more disastrous move than the test had been. In the end, Buffy had rejected the Watchers altogether. They had abandoned Wesley, not even giving him passage back to America. Since then, he'd become partners with Angel, the Vampire with a soul that had been Buffy's first love.

The whole thing was sufficient to prove that the Watchers were either not very good at what they did – which was hard to believe as they had been doing it for centuries – or that living on a Hellmouth set even the best laid plans to ruin. Buffy was inclined to believe the latter, although she didn't dismiss the former as unthinkable. Still, either way, she thought it a bad idea to allow Willow to pursue the testing.

The witch testing was necessary for any witch that wanted to use the Watchers collection of magical artifacts. They couldn't just hand the artifacts to anyone who came knocking; they needed to know that the individual could handle it before granting its use. The only way to know that was to put the witch or warlock in question through a series of tests. Given the scope of detail of the tests, it was unwise to wait until you needed something to undergo the trial. Most witches simply got the certification as a matter of course.

"Giles and I have been through this," Willow responded, frustrated at having to go through the same old argument again. "He's agreed to the trial, and that's that."

"It's more like you blackmailed him into it," Buffy snapped in reply. In truth, Willow had annoyed her way into getting the information, and then blackmailed her way into getting permission to take the trials.

Giles was opposed to the trials. A dear friend of his had been killed while taking the trial, and Giles himself had barely escaped decapitation. As a result, when he let mention of the existence of the trials slip once in conversation, he resolved to not allow the conversation to go any further and simply refused to discuss it further. But Willow had been relentless.

While Willow had been a practicing witch for only a year or so, she'd been an overachiever her entire life. It drove her to distraction to think that there was a test she could take, a certification she could achieve, and yet be denied the chance to try. Everything inside her longed for achievement – measurable achievement. She believed that she could pass any test, and she wanted the chance to prove it.

So, Willow had begun a campaign to change Giles mind. She had started by dropping hints (_Boy, I think I'm learning so much about magic. I only wish I knew how much I really knew). She had then tried indignation (_How can you possibly call yourself an educator when you hold out information from willing, eager students?_) This had really been quite a stretch, since she hadn't been his student for two of years – and even then he'd actually only been the librarian, not an actual teacher. She had finally moved on to bribes (__Hi Giles! In my spare time, I indexed all the magic texts by author, time period, and spell component). _

"I think it was the brownies that finally did it," Tara said absently.

The last straw had in fact been the brownies. Willow had baked Giles a large batch of chocolate brownies and brought them by his store, The Magic Box. He was cataloging some new ceremonial urns from Peru when Willow had arrived.

"Hi Giles. Ooh, what are those? Peruvian, aren't they? Those are shaman's urns. I read about those. I read about a lot of things, you know. Like, did you know that there are certain summoning spells that actually cause you to switch places with a demon, rather than simply bringing him here? Oh, and did you know that birch bark can be used to cause confusion in certain species of sentient slug-beasts?" Willow had gotten all of that out in one breath. Giles had simply stared at her, dumbfounded. She had withered slightly under his gaze, but then looked down at the baking dish in her hands. "And, hey, look, _brownies_. And I think they're for you." She had dramatically checked the card. "Yep – it says right here, Rupert Giles. Imagine that. There's not too many Rupert Giles's around here, so I bet they're for you."

Giles, in typical fashion, had taken off his glasses and cleaned the lenses without saying a word. He had held them up to the light to check for spots, and as he gazed at them had asked distractedly, "If I tell you about the witch certification, will you go back to being Willow again?" Willow had shuffled her feet at the mild rebuke, but smiled in spite of herself. At last, he had nodded.

"You're the best! Oh, boy, can you tell me now?" Willow had practically jumped up and down with glee.

"Not right now, I still have to catalog these urns. Besides, I need to look a few things up. But I should have all the information by this weekend. Okay?"

"Excellent." Willow had beamed. "I better go tell Tara," she had said, and then turned to leave.

"Willow," Giles had called after her. "Leave my brownies."

Giles never did get any of the brownies, as Anya had seen an opportunity for profit and promptly sold them off to customers coming into the store. But, true to his word, and despite the loss of the brownies, Giles had sat down and explained the trials to Willow and Tara.

Although Giles had been willing to explain them, he hadn't been willing to sponsor the girls for the trials. They were too dangerous, and nothing would persuade him to place Willow and Tara in such a position.

"I didn't blackmail him," Willow protested. "We made a deal, fair and square." Willow was defensive about the subject, especially around Buffy. Buffy knew how dangerous the dark residents of Sunnydale were, and what Willow had done to get Giles agreement to the trials.

Willow had begun taking greater and greater chances while out on patrol. She'd set herself up against superior demonic opponents. She had repeatedly put her life on the line in an effort to prove the capability of her magic.

In the end, Giles had seen that there was no other course. He would agree to the trials on one condition. "If you pass the certification, I won't bug you anymore about taking chances on patrol or in combat." He had paused to let it let the option sink in. "But if you don't pass …"

Willow had finished the thought for him. "If I don't pass, I have to start paying attention to you?" She had been somewhat crestfallen by the realization.

"Oh, more than that. You will obey me when it comes to your use of witchcraft. No if's, and's or but's. You will not cast a single spell without my express permission." 

And so Willow had become locked into the agreement. Putting her life on the line in the trials, and her freedom on the line in her pursuit to take them. And now the trials were only nine days away. Nine days, and Buffy was still trying to talk her out of it.

Willow pushed away from Buffy and Tara. "Aren't you going to lunch?" Buffy asked her.

"I've kinda lost my appetite," Willow responded. "Mondays, you know." She turned before Buffy could say anything more, and walked off.

"Why can't you just leave her alone?" Tara said, coming to Willow's defense. "It's decided. She needs your support now."

"Tara, this is dangerous. This is – "

"This is _her choice," Tara replied hotly. "That's something none of you can ever get used to. Just like her being with _me_," she paused, wiping back a tear. "Taking the trials is her choice, whether you like it or not. Why can't you just be her friend for once?" Tara turned to leave, but then stopped. "You can't keep her from danger and you can't choose for her," she said without looking back._

  
  



	5. Chapter 4 Assembly

**  
** Chapter 4 

Assembly

England - May 3rd

"There'll be dangers, and I can't choose for you," Sheffield was saying to the men assembled before him. "This is strictly a volunteer mission. I can't tell you what it is yet, but I can tell you that you've each been personally selected by me based on your skill and achievement. I have confidence in our ability to execute successfully." He paused, looking each man in the eye. "Is there anyone who doesn't want to go?"

No hands lifted. 'Voluntary' was a peculiar word here. In a strict sense, the mission was voluntary – all of Sir Radcliffe's covert missions were. But failing to volunteer had consequences. You only refused an opportunity once; after that, there were no more chances. That's not to say that they would be bounced out of the military. Far from it, in fact. They would be returned to their normal post for their normal assignment. And that would be that – a normal post with normal assignments for the rest of their career.

But the men assembled here were not ones for whom 'normal' was a way of life. They knew that a few men in far off places quietly fought the real wars; victory was when no one ever knew what had happened. The wars that people saw – the thousands of troops and tanks and planes marching through a country – were what happened when they failed. 'Normal' troops sat waiting in readiness against the time men like Sheffield should fail. No one in the room was big on waiting.

The team assembled consisted of eight men. Sheffield stood in the front of the seven others – calm, cool and collected as usual. They were assembled in a hanger in an out of the way base on the west coast of Great Britain. They had been brought in from various points around the world at Sheffield's request. Sheffield was familiar with all of them – except for Captain MacKenzie. MacKenzie was Sir Radcliffe's personal selection, and like it or not he had to make the man fit in with the rest of the team he had assembled. Sheffield didn't like it.

It wasn't just that he had never worked with MacKenzie before, although that was an issue. MacKenzie was a Captain with a good deal of service time. Sir Radcliffe undoubtedly knew that MacKenzie would outrank anyone Sheffield was likely to select for the mission. That made MacKenzie the Executive Officer of the mission. So it wasn't just that Sheffield didn't know him; Sheffield also had to rely on him as XO – the second in command.

As Commanding Officer, Sheffield held a position apart from the others. He was by both tradition and necessity unapproachable. There was God and then there was him, and there was no one in between. The XO, by contrast to the CO, was responsible for day to day operation of the unit, as well as most discipline. The men would interact with MacKenzie more than Sheffield. And since Mac was an unknown, Sheffield was not in control – that was a situation he hoped to remedy at once.

"All right then," Sheffield said. "Reassamble at 2200 hours." He nodded once to the men as MacKenzie stood up.

"Listen up, lassies," Mac said. "This is no time for picnics. I want bags packed, checked, and repacked by 1700. I want ordinance checked, rechecked and checked again by 1900. Then I want the transport packed, fueled, and ready before you break. That gives you maybe an hour to grab a hot meal before reassembly. Eat one, you're going to need it. Any questions?" No one made any motion to ask anything.

"Good," Sheffield said. "Dismissed." The men began dispersing to their tasks. "Captain, you're with me, please," Sheffield said, and began walking to his office. The Major didn't bother to check whether or not MacKenzie was with him; if he wasn't, he wouldn't be getting on the plane. It was that simple. He walked across the hanger to a small room that had been in use twelve hours ago by the maintenance chief. It was, until 2200, Sheffield's office.

He walked in and sat down at his chair, pleased to see MacKenzie standing at attention when he looked up. The Captain was certainly acting like an XO, which was a good sign in Sheffield's book. He looked at the Captain critically for several moments. Mac looked back calmly, seemingly unaffected by the quiet scrutiny. 

Finding nothing in the Captain with which to find fault, the Major cleared his throat. "Mr. MacKenzie, if you wouldn't mind, please provide me your assessment of the men." MacKenzie's opinion of the men would have no bearing whatsoever on Sheffield's assessment of them. It would, however, demonstrate how much their perceptions were in line. If MacKenzie's assessment deviated too severely from Sheffield's own, it would be sign.

MacKenzie looked up at the ceiling for a moment to collect his thoughts. Then looked back at Sheffield, never moving from his rigid 'attention' stance. "Baker, Donald J. Captain. Combat decorated infantryman. Trained as a medic. Operated successfully in Burma, the Congo, and the Mid-East. Proficient in all small arms, hand-to-hand combat, as well as desert and jungle warfare."

"That's his biography, yes," snapped Sheffield. "I want your assessment."

"He'd be second in Command if I wasn't here, but shows no signs of being either bothered or relieved by this. Able to take up command or take orders as required. Cool head, steady hands. As the medic, we may want to keep him in perimeter actions to maximize his chances of survival – and therefore ours." Mac lifted one eyebrow in silent query. Was the Major pleased?

"Your assessment mirrors my own," Sheffield said. "The rest now."

MacKenzie began ticking his way through the rest of the team. Brad Murphy was the vehicle expert. He had a broad set of capabilities, including mechanics and driving. He had done the racing circuit before joining the military, and had never quite gotten it out of his blood. It was a well-known secret that he organized car racing events on nearly every base he'd been on, winning most of them.

James Brody was a classic SAS man. He'd jump out of an airplane at high altitude, free falling for a half hour before opening his chute below radar levels and landing well behind enemy lines. From that position, armed with only what he could carry, he could work his way through hostile territory to destroy a target, steal information, or free a prisoner – whatever the mission required. He was a rock for the chain of command to hold onto.

Arthur Jessup could be James Brody's twin, professionally speaking. He was a born commando. The only difference was that Jessup's experience leaned towards urban combat. He'd worked in Belfast, Sarajevo, and Port o' Prince. Even when hunted by the local populace, he managed to thread his way through strange cities easily.

Michael Johnson was their communications man. He was the only one who knew MacKenzie – a fact which MacKenzie did not see fit to share. The Major obviously had secrets to keep, so MacKenzie could keep one or two of his own. Johnson was an expert at surveillance, as well. A skill that was essential to intelligence gathering.

Benjamin Cook was the last member of the team. He was a washed out RAF intelligence operative. His placement in the SAS was something of a mystery. Since arriving there, though, he'd proven useful – especially to Sheffield. Cook was Sheffield's errand boy, sly as a fox but without the intelligence to make it in the intelligence branch. He could handle a weapon, though, and he always seemed to have a way out. It was this skill at extraction that had earned him Sheffield's favor, for Cook had saved Sheffield's butt on more than one occasion. Mac didn't trust someone who always kept one eye on the exit, though. That was also something that he didn't bother to share with Sheffield.

Sheffield nodded and grunted through each assessment. MacKenzie was perceptive, he could tell. In general, his observations about the strengths of each man mirrored Sheffield's own. But Sheffield could also tell that Mac was holding back; he wasn't being completely open about what he thought.

When the interview was completed, Sheffield dismissed Mac. As the door closed, he contemplated what he knew. MacKenzie was competent, astute, and generally forthcoming. He inherently understood the situation they were going into, even without any knowledge of the specifics. He was a good officer, a good commando, and possessed specific knowledge that would likely prove important to their mission.

MacKenzie, however, was holding back. He had thoughts and opinions he wasn't sharing, specifically about Cook. That made Sheffield wonder. MacKenzie was going to be an excellent XO as long as everything went down as planned. But if things started going sour, he wasn't sure he could count on Mac to follow orders.

MacKenzie had a mind of his own, and therefore he couldn't be trusted.

* * *

Ten hours later, the team was soaring above the Atlantic Ocean in a transport plane. They were sitting in the body of the plane with their gear on jump seats. These seats barely served their primary function; comfort was completely out of the question. As a result, most of them men only stayed in the jump seats as necessary. Most of the time, they mingled amongst their gear, conversing amiably. 

Most of the men had served in at least one mission with each of the others; some had been together frequently. All but MacKenzie had served under Sheffield numerous times. That gave them at least a fleeting glimpse at camaraderie; a glimpse which they sought to capture before they were forced to rely on one another in a combat situation. Brody already had his cards out, but most were wary enough of his skill to simply chat while he shuffled.

MacKenzie, though, was an outsider. Sheffield sat alone due to the dictates of his position; MacKenzie through the lack of any meaningful background with these men. Unlike Sheffield, MacKenzie's position was changeable. He worked his way back to where they sat, and smiled cordially at them.

"Well, lads, it seems that someone has the cards out, but no one is playing. How can we possibly correct that error?" Every one laughed at his good manner.

"Well, Mac, you are more than welcome to challenge Mr. Brody's cards," Johnson shot back, smiling. "The rest of us like our money too much."

"You canna put together a decent game with only two, though," MacKenzie countered. No one volunteered to join, though. "Tell you what," he said. "I managed to pack a bottle of good whisky in with the surveillance gear. I'll split it with whoever joins the game."

With such a fine incentive, three more players immediately volunteered. The other two men – Johnson and Cook – decided to act as the color commentary on the proceedings. MacKenzie made a decision to lose for an hour or so in order to break the ice. In truth, he didn't have much of a choice. Brody was good. But Mac was able to keep things even. To everyone's surprise and humor, Baker seemed to be smack in the middle of an extraordinary river of luck. 

As the game progressed, good-natured banter was freely exchanged between the men. Slowly, inch by inch, MacKenzie found himself included in their group. Eventually, they even began to ask him about himself.

"Is it true that you won the commando competition three years in a row?" asked Jessup, clearly in disbelief at such an event. The competition pitted SAS officers in teams against one another in a series of war games. That was common enough among all the military branches. The last event, though, was always a one-on-one competition. The top two teams each selected their best man, and the two were sent off into the woods to hunt one another. The competition ended only after one man had 'killed' the other.

"Aye," MacKenzie replied. "What can I say? I'm good at hiding in the trees." Everyone laughed at this reply.

"Wow," said Murphy. "I don't know of anyone who's ever done that."

"Sheffield," said Cook sourly. "Sheffield won three consecutive years."

_The lap dog speaks_, MacKenzie thought.

"Wouldn't it be cool to see the Captain take on the Major?" Johnson asked. The rest of group heartily agreed and began making a round of bets and predictions on the outcome. Not surprisingly, Sheffield was heavily favored in such a one-on-one confrontation.

"What do you think, MacKenzie?" Brody asked. "Do you think you could take the Major?"

"Well," MacKenzie said, aware that his every word would be reported back to Sheffield by his man Cook. "I canna say as I think I think I can or I think I can't. I can only say that I wouldna wish it to happen, for he and I are both too old to be engaging in young men's sport." That answer earned a round of hoots and laughter from the other men, and even a grunt of humor from Cook. _Nothing to report_, thought MacKenzie, looking surreptitiously at Cook. _Let's just keep it that way_.

  



	6. Chapter 5 Amends

**  
** Chapter 5 

Amends

Sunnydale – May 4th

It was Friday night in Sunnydale, and that meant one thing – the Bronze. The Bronze was the local all-ages nightclub. It was also the unofficial line of last of resort for the Scooby gang. The music of the disaffected, combined with a large dance floor and halfway decent lattes, made it the Gen-X/Y/Z hangout of choice. Being the only such place in Sunnydale also helped.

"If comfort food were a place, it would be the Bronze," Willow said to Tara as they sat on one of the many couches strewn about the edges of the club.

"If places were food, High-School would be broccoli," Tara returned with a smile.

"Absolutely," agreed Willow. "And if broccoli were a person, it would be Buffy!"

"C'mon sweetie," Tara cajoled. "She's just trying to look out for you. Buffy isn't that bad."

"At least you don't have to live with her," said a voice next to them. It was Dawn, Buffy's sister. "I mean, she is so overprotective about everything. God, I wish she'd just go slay something and leave me alone for once."

"Hey Dawny," Willow said. "Good to see you, too." The sarcasm was lost on the teenager as she flopped down next to the two women. "I take it that Buffy is here, too," Willow asked cautiously.

"Yeah, somewhere," said Dawn dismissively, waiving her hand in the general direction of the rest of the club. "Whatcha drinking?"

"Uh, caramel latte," Willow replied.

"Double mocha," offered Tara. "Do you want something?"

"Maybe some water," she said. "Or a soda. Root beer. Or maybe a raspberry Italian Soda."

"Why don't we go up to the counter," Tara suggested, and led Dawn off.

Willow sat alone, sipping her coffee. She sensed more than saw Buffy walk up. She stared pointedly at her coffee, refusing to look up at her friend.

"Hey Will," Buffy said cautiously. "Can I sit down?"

"I guess," said Willow. "It's not like there's a law or anything that says, you know, 'sitting down is too dangerous.' So, I guess if I can do it, the mighty slayer can, too."

"Okay, I deserved that," Buffy said, sitting down. "Look, I'm sorry Willow."

"You are?" asked Willow, hopeful. 

"Yes," said Buffy, purposefully. "I know I get overprotective sometimes. I know in my head that you can do this. You're smart; you're powerful. But my heart has a hard time seeing you that way. In my heart, you're just my friend who I care about and I don't want anything bad to happen to." She paused, waiting for Willow to look at her. When she did, Buffy continued. "Willow, I believe in you; I'm sorry if I ever sounded like I didn't."

Willow sniffed. "That's all Hallmarky," she said.

"Totally Hallmarky," Buffy agreed. "One more thing. You and Tara – well, as long as you're happy, I'm happy for you. Okay?"

"So, you're not totally wigged about me being, you know," Willow asked. The revelation of her relationship with Tara had been unexpected by the rest of the Scoobies.

"Well, I was at first. But now I'm totally non-wigged," Buffy responded.

"Totally?"

"One hundred percent non-wiggage." Buffy nodded firmly.

"Well, I'm sorry I called you broccoli," Willow said, apologizing.

"I'm not sure I want to know. Now, how about we forget about all this for awhile and have some fun?"

"Okay," said Willow.

"Did somebody say 'fun'?" came Xander's voice from one side. He and Anya stopped in front of the couch. "Are you two friends again?" he asked in his exaggerated fatherly tone.

"Yes, Xander," they both replied.

"Okay, cause I don't want to have to send you two to your rooms," Xander continued.

"Don't push it Xander," Buffy added.

"Right," he replied. He turned to Anya, "Look sweetie, they're friends again. Isn't that great?"

"That's wonderful," Anya replied. "Are they going to have make-up sex?"

"No!" said Willow and Buffy simultaneously.

"It's just that whenever we get into a fight and then become friends again, we always do," Anya explained. 

"Yeah, but you and I are a couple," Xander said, trying to salvage the situation.

"True," Anya agreed. "But we already know that Willow is gay, and when you consider Buffy's track record with _men_, I just thought that –"

"This is me going now," said Buffy, getting up. "Will?"

"Tara will be right back. I should stay here." Willow replied, slightly red from Anya's remarks.

"Anya, why don't we go dance?" Xander suggested.

"You're just trying to shut me up," Anya replied.

"No, I want to dance with you," Xander said, his sincerity belied by the rolling of his eyes.

"Okay," Anya said, and promptly led him off.

"How he ended up with that girl, I'll never know," Buffy said.

"Xander's got a special magnetic field that only attracts the oddest women," Willow said. "Remember Mummy Girl?"

"How could I forget? Or the Praying Mantis?"

"Ick! I guess it's really no surprise that he should end up with an ex-demon." Willow took a big sip of her coffee.

"I'm just surprised he waited until she was an _ex_-demon," Buffy said.

"Are you two friends again?" Dawn asked, walking up to the couch.

"Yes," said Willow and Buffy simultaneously.

"Good," said Dawn. "Anybody want to play pool?"

"I'll play," said Buffy. "I'll see you guys tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," Willow and Tara replied. Buffy and Dawn headed off towards the pool tables. 

After a few moments silence, Tara ventured into the subject of Willow and Buffy. "So how'd it go?" she asked.

"Buffy apologized," said Willow. "She was really very nice about it."

"Good," said Tara. "Did she say anything about me?" Tara asked.

"She's totally non-wigged," Willow replied.

"Cool," Tara said, but with more relief in her voice than she intended.

"Why don't we dance?" Willow suggested. The two women drained their coffee mugs and headed for the dance floor, the world of Sunnydale once more put right.

* * *

"So, I take it you're friends again," said Giles the next morning. "That's good. The shop was growing a bit tense."

"Glad you approve," replied Buffy. "We'd hate for all our personal conflicts to affect business," she added archly.

"I didn't mean it that way," he said, apologetically.

"I know, I just figured I'd give you a hard time about it," Buffy said, smiling.

"Well I meant it that way," supplied Anya from behind the counter. Buffy and Giles ignored her.

"When will the tester arrive?" Buffy asked. 

"Tuesday, as far as I know," he responded. "I'm not really sure, to tell you the truth. I only know that I am to expect her by Wednesday morning, and offer her all required assistance."

"I didn't think the watchers could order you around anymore."

"Well, they can't in an official capacity," he replied ruefully. "However, they would certainly be able to make my life somewhat miserable if I were not at least somewhat cooperative."

"We'll all be cooperative along with you."

"Found it!" Willow's voice came drifting down from the loft area of the shop. She descended down the ladder with a large, ancient tome in her hands. She held it up for Giles' inspection. "The Confessions of Saint Jerome," she read from the title.

Giles picked up the book and turned to the page where she had inserted a slip of paper as a bookmark. He read a moment to himself. "Yes," he said, nodding. " 'If you can understand the core aspects of a spell, you can cast it with no more than a thought. The words of the spell are merely the shaping of one's thoughts, the balancing of power in one's own mind. If you understand the spell to its core, you can balance your mind and power without the ritual of invocation, and release it with a single word.

" 'That explains why the easiest of spells can be accomplished with a single word by anyone, because the balance of mind and power is simple and easily achieved. The measure of a spell caster is first to master complex spells inherently, evoking their essence with little time or preparation. But more importantly is the ability to mix spells into a single invocation, accomplishing multiple tasks at once. This requires a mastery of the spells being invoked, an internal balance of mind and power, and exceptional talent. For it is true that many of the best educated magicians in France are unable to do this, for they lack a fundamental spark inside themselves that makes it possible.

" 'If any witch or warlock, magician or wizard, mage or sorcerer wishes to truly test themselves, they must try this. They must dispense with what they know and have learned and instead rely on what they have come to feel. For if you truly know a spell, you can cast it from just thought and feeling. But if you lack the spark, you will forever be destined to lengthy ritual.'

"Well, that's quite an explanation. Who'd ever though that a crazy French monk could encapsulate a thought so articulately?"

"So, that's what I need to do, right?" Willow asked. "I need to try that, if I'm going to get an advantage in the trials."

Giles rubbed his brow. "I think we need to take this one step at a time, Willow. The point of this exercise was to have you understand the principle and to be able to find it among the texts. It was not to suggest a new course of practice."

"I know, I was just thinking, that's all."

Giles softened a bit. "I'm not saying it isn't a good idea, Willow," he said. "I'm just saying we need to take these things one step at a time. Perhaps we'll try it tomorrow."

"Okay," Willow agreed. "Tomorrow's the day."

  



	7. Chapter 6 The Mission

**  
** Chapter 6 

The Mission

Outside San Diego – May 6th

A black SUV pulled off the highway and into a nondescript rest stop. It drove slowly through the parking lot to the far end, where it pulled in next to two others that were already there. Five sets of eyes tracked the SUV as it arrived, two by one picnic table and three others by another. 

The SUV stopped and disgorged its three passengers. Dressed in loose fitting camouflage pants, sweatshirts and orange vests, they were immediately identified as hunters. They were identified and dismissed, just another group of the same – middle-aged men trying to bond in the woods over dead birds and beer.

The back of the vehicle was filled with camping gear, just as anyone would expect to find. Indeed, their examination at the Mexican border had been routine. The U.S. Customs agent had even commented that they were the third group to have come through that day. A brief check, and they were waved through.

If the agent had done a detailed search of the SUV, he would have found much more than the shotguns and tents that were readily apparent. He would have found the high-tech weapons and communications gear of an SAS team. But that didn't happen – couldn't happen. The commandos were experts at disguising themselves and their gear by appearing to be exactly what was expected.

Now, all three groups were here at this rest stop, and they slowly gathered back towards their trucks. The eight-man commando team had successfully infiltrated the United States of America.

They had landed on a small island off the coast of Mexico, and then proceeded by fishing boat onto the mainland. There, in a small village, they had met their contacts and proceeded inland in the back of a farm truck. On a decrepit farm in the desert, they had been supplied with vehicles, false identification, and camping equipment. They had spent the night repacking and disguising their gear and going over their plan.

They had left separately, an hour between each vehicle. Each had crossed the border without incident, relying on the strength of the border patrol's profiling. They would not be suspected, and indeed they weren't. Now, they were at the rendezvous point; it was time to learn of their final destination.

The men stood in a loose circle in a grassy area ten feet from the vehicles. They carefully checked to make sure that no one was within earshot. Sheffield looked at each of them in turn, taking their measure. When he was sure he had their attention, he spoke.

"We're heading to a small city north of hear called Sunnydale," he said. "You can find it on your maps. Mac is handing out the envelopes with the next rendezvous address. Wait until you get back on the road, then open the envelopes and enter the information in the GPS. That will guide you to our operation point. You'll find out more there."

The men nodded, and then Mac spoke. "We'll leave in the order we arrived, twenty minute separations. Maintain speed – we don't need a highway patrol officer undoing this action. Keep speculations to a minimum, you'll all find out more when we arrive."

"Dismissed," Sheffield said simply. They men split into three groups once again. Within moments, the first group was on the road.

* * *

The meeting point was a rental house on the outskirts of Sunnydale. It was nothing to look at, with flaking paint, a yard full of weeds and a sagging porch roof. On the other hand, the house was sufficient for the men and their gear. It also had easy access to the back alleys of the city and the sewers. The neighbors, what few there were, also minded their own business. It was, if not ideal, the closest thing possible. And since it had a pirated cable TV feed, it formed a much more comfortable space than many the team had camped out in over the years.

It was late when they arrived, and the men had been going for almost thirty-six hours already. They quickly unpacked the vehicles and covered them with tarps – new SUVs would be mighty suspicious in this neighborhood. The essentials were taken from their gear – electronic monitoring gear for the house, sleeping bags, and small arms.

All but one of the men bedded down for the night. Brody knew that he would be taking first watch and had made sure that he slept during the drive. Armed with a portable monitor for the swiftly constructed security system and an automatic rifle, he set himself in the corner of the living room to calmly keep guard for the next four hours. He would be relieved at 4am by Jessup. Until then, though, everyone else could sleep well. No one got past James Brody.

* * *

The next morning, the team gathered in the small kitchen of the rental house. In addition to keeping guard, Jessup had put on coffee, much to everyone's relief. The men nibbled on ration bars from their own packs as they waited for Sheffield to tell them what they were doing. Sheffield eventually arrived, turned out perfectly, looking as if he had slept for twelve hours straight in a fine feather bed.

He nodded genially to the group, and turned towards Mac. "Captain, the folder please," he said. MacKenzie produced a stack of folders, seemingly from nowhere, and passed them out. Everyone opened to the first page, an 8x10 photo of a blonde girl. "This," Sheffield said, holding up the picture, "is Buffy Summers. She's the reason that we're here." He waited for everyone to get a good look. "Buffy Summers is the Slayer. Mr. MacKenzie, would you care to enlighten the men?"

"The Slayer is a myth. A young lassie, called to fight the vampires and demons that walk the Earth, gifted with the power to do so." He looked back to Sheffield. "No one really knows if it's true, though."

"Well, the Americans seem to think so," replied Sheffield. "An American operation came in contact with her a year ago. They documented not only her existence, but also her abilities. She was able to take out an entire American commando team in under thirty seconds."

"So, we're here to take _her_ out?" asked Jessup.

"No," replied Sheffield. "We're here to observe and report. Her, her friends, and anyone she else she comes into contact with. A civilian operative will contact us later this week with further instructions. For now, you have four hours to familiarize yourself with everything in this file – her, her friends, and her known habits. At 10am, we are in the field and taking observations."

Mac stepped up at that point. "That means you have four hours to get your gear checked and stowed, familiarize yourself with the file, and prepare for a civilian infiltration. Johnson, I want communications and surveillance gear ready by 0900. Cook, I want you to go out and acquire local supplies by 0900 as well. We'll need food, personal items, and any other supplies anyone can think of. We'll meet back here at 0930 for duty assignments." He nodded back to Sheffield.

"Dismissed," he said. Then men dispersed in all directions.

They unpacked quickly and efficiently. Weapons and ammunition were taken from their hiding places and reassembled. The camping gear that had previously been used for disguise was stowed in the basement. A more permanent security system was put in place in the house.

Mac reviewed the Summers' file and began matching her major activities against their inventory of electronics gear. It was a process of trying to do too much with too little – something that the SAS excelled at. In the end, he decided to split the team into two groups – one to cover locations such as the campus and the Magic Box and one to follow Buffy and her friends individually. They would need to rotate regularly so that no one person would become too recognizable. But with good timing and careful execution, the task would be doable.

He had barely enough time to run the plan by Sheffield before the team converged on the kitchen. Sheffield approved of the deployment plan, making a few changes in who was assigned to which task. He also had input into the redeployment plans, preferring to manage those himself. Mac was still making the appropriate changes on his handheld computer as he walked into the kitchen.

The kitchen, per his orders, had been appropriately stocked. The men had helped themselves and begun assembling sandwiches, which were being passed out throughout the room. They also handed out bottles of water to wash it down with. The group quickly came to attention as Mac and Sheffield entered the room.

Mac surveyed the team. They were dressed in a variety of civilian clothes, representing a cross-section of Sunnydale's population. Each of them looked plain, but Mac knew that they were each not only lethally armed but also equipped with the best surveillance equipment. He approved.

"Pay attention gentleman, I have your assignments here …."

  



	8. Chapter 7 Test Preparation

**  
** Chapter 7 

Test Preparation

Sunnydale – May 8th

"I feel like somebody is watching me," Willow said to the room at large.

"That's just nerves," Giles said. "We've all been feeling that way the last couple of days. The tester will arrive today, and we'll all be under a certain degree of scrutiny."

"Well, Willow will, at any rate," Buffy offered.

"No, actually," Giles corrected. "We all will. In addition to Willow and Tara, the tester will be evaluating the rest of us, especially you and me. You can be sure that the opportunity to get a peak into the Slayer's life hasn't been lost on them." He paused for a moment to let the words sink in to everyone present. Everyone seemed more or less discomforted by this revelation, except for Dawn, who was completely involved in a set of Algebra problems that were due the following day.

"As for myself," Giles continued, "the council will evaluate me as the sponsor of Willow and Tara's application. It is conceivable that if they were to fail, disciplinary action could be taken against me. When you consider that I make my living as a purveyor of magic, the implications are quite sobering."

"Well, I don't think we have to worry," said Anya cheerily. "If things go poorly, we can simply get rid of the tester, right?"

"What exactly do you mean, 'Get rid of?'" asked Buffy suspiciously.

"You know, bump'em off. Let'em swim with the fishies. Buy'em a pair of cement shoes." Anya was happy to continue ticking off the euphemisms.

"Sweetie, have you been watching The Godfather trilogy again?" Xander asked. Anya had the presence of mind to at least pretend to be chagrinned. "We've talked about that before, An," Xander continued patiently. "That's a movie, this is real life."

"But they might take our _money_!" she cried plaintively. The discovery of commerce had been one of the things that made existence in this dimension tolerable for the ex-demon.

"I'm sure it will be fine," Giles said more calmly than he felt. "I really shouldn't have even brought it up."

"Does anyone know when she'll arrive?" Buffy asked.

"We haven't a clue," Giles returned.

"Well, it's good to finally hear you admit it, mate," came a voice from the shadows of the shop. Spike, the Sid Vicious of the vampire world, stepped into the light. 

Spike was a notorious vampire – the only one to have killed two slayers and lived to tell about it. Buffy had almost been his third kill a number of times. Unfortunately, a close encounter with The Initiative, a secret military team operating in Sunnydale, had left Spike with a chip in his head that prevented him from harming any humans. He was effectively neutered. Despite that, neither the slayer nor anyone in the group had it in them to kill him now that he couldn't even attempt to defend himself. That did not make him welcome, though. They would prefer to shun him, but something in Spike's makeup made him too engaging to avoid. Like a particularly obnoxious neighbor, he had been part of the Scooby gang's lives for too long to simply ignore, but he was not particularly liked.

Spike was dressed in his particular brand of fashion – black leather on black leather, with a black leather coat over it all. The contrast with his slicked-back platinum hair and lower-class English accent both contrasted and matched the monochrome simplicity of his outfit. He was also a chain smoker – a fact that was explicitly unwelcome both in The Magic Box and in Buffy's circle of friends.

"'ere now, wot are you lot up to?" His lower class British accent made him difficult to understand under the best of circumstances. When he was attempting to talk and smoke at the same time, as he was now, it was downright impossible.

"Spike," Giles said, similar in tone to how one would identify a dead fish in your living room.

"What do you want?" Buffy asked the unwelcome addition to the meeting.

"How about nice little piece of you, sweet-cheeks?" He responded.

"Don't make me have to vomit on you," she replied.

"Look," he said, throwing his hands up in surrender, "you know I'd do anything for you, doll. But I just came by to wish red here a bit o' luck," Spike said.

"Really?" asked Buffy disbelieving. "That's all?"

Spike withered under her stare. "Okay, I was just going to grab some tarrow root. But I did want to wish the missies luck."

"What_ever_," Buffy replied impatiently.

"Okay, later then," Spike said, and turned to leave.

"Wait, you didn't pay," Anya exclaimed as Spike headed for the front door.

"Put it on my account," he called back as he exited.

"He doesn't have an account," Anya said sullenly to no one in particular.

* * *

Across the street from the Magic Box, Brad Murphy watched Spike leave. It was twilight, the Sun having gone down enough that he didn't have to fear direct exposure to sunlight. Murphy discretely captured a photo of Spike and attached it to the audio file he had been recording. Everything that had happened in the Magic Box for the last two days had been recorded.

He transmitted the information to Johnson, safely ensconced in the rental house they were using as a headquarters, tagged with an "I.D. Request." Across town, the information was processed with the very best computing technologies against all the other figures that they had come across in the last two days.

Murphy's handheld beeped a few moments later. Spike's ID and all known information about him scrolled across his handheld. Murphy quickly absorbed the information and frowned. He rewound the recording he had made and reviewed the contents of the file. Spike was a vampire; but, it seemed, he was friendly with the Slayer.

Murphy flipped on his communicator. "Major, we have a problem."

* * *

The door to the Magic Box opened, ringing the small bell to announce a visitor. Giles walked across the room, immediately switching into "proprietor" mode. The visitor was a small, foreign looking woman. She stood calmly, almost serenely, in the doorway. She looked up at Giles as he approached, but spoke before he could greet her.

"Are you Rupert Giles?" she asked calmly. Her voice was tinged with a French accent.

"Yes, I am. And you are?"

Her eyes hardened and her mouth grew grim. "I am Madame LaFusce, and I am here to conduct the tests." She stood stock still as if to dare Giles to contradict her.

"Of course," he said, slightly discomforted by her gaze. "Allow me to introduce you to the candidates."

"A gentleman would offer to take my coat first," the old woman snapped. She took off her coat and tossed it to him, and then marched into the shop ignoring him. She surveyed the Scooby gang critically, her gaze observing them like a hungry hawk seeking small prey. "Which of you are the candidates?"

Willow and Tara, seated amongst a pile of books, slowly raised their hands. For the first time, Willow was rethinking the decision.

"Cramming for the exam will not help you now," the maven said bluntly. That pretty much set the tone for the relationship.

* * *

Sheffield, MacKenzie and Johnson sat clustered around the kitchen table. "This is exactly the type of anomalous behavior that command wanted us to flag," Sheffield was saying. "Let's get this reported back to them as quickly as possible."

MacKenzie and Johnson nodded, and Sheffield left the room. MacKenzie shook his head. "Seems like the wee lassie doesn't have the best of friends, aye?" Johnson grunted in agreement. "Does it seem to you that we might be missing some information here, though?" Johnson shrugged. Mac was slightly exasperated with the incommunicativeness of the communications officer. On the other hand, Johnson seemed to be well absorbed in the traffic flowing across his screen. 

"Well, let's see what else we can find out," Mac said after a moment. "I have a hard time believing that she's become mates with a hardened killer without any explanation." Mac took out his handheld and tapped a message to Cook. Cook, being a former intelligence officer, was the most likely to have some means of finding out more about the creature Spike.

He walked through the house back towards the Major's room. He was interested in knowing more about what to expect. The Major was frowning over his command station. Mac waited, leaning against one side of the door jam until the commander should look up.

When the Major finally did register Mac's presence, he did so with a certain amount of annoyance. "Yes, Captain?" he asked plainly.

"Any word on what to do about Spike?" he asked. It was somewhat of a premature question. The Major had, at best, sent the message to their headquarters contact no more than ten minutes before. However, Mac was interested in seeing if it was something to be acknowledged immediately or not.

Sheffield eyed Mac cautiously, but after some form of internal struggle seemed to relent. "We're instructed to not interfere … no matter what."

Mac cocked an eyebrow at this. "No matter what?"

The Major nodded. "The locals will take care of it."

  



	9. Chapter 8 Convergence

**  
** Chapter 8 

Convergence

Sunnydale – May 9th

The Seventh Speaker of the Circle approached the abandoned mansion confidently. The looming façade frowned down on her like a broken, aged old giant. It seemed to gaze at her through broken windows half-boarded up, winking at her in malicious glee. The flickering shadows moving across its surface seemed to change its visage from moment to moment, like emotions cascading across a huge, vile bug collector examining its prized new butterfly.

The Seventh Speaker was unimpressed by the place. While the locals seemed to run past it in hidden dread of its inner evil, she knew it for what it was. It was a broken down old home that had played host to untold atrocities and housed a nest of vile demons. As such, it was simply a place, and its inhabitants were no threat to her.

She climbed the stairs without hesitation, looking up directly into the eyes that stared at her from the shadows. She knew where they were even if they stayed hidden. She wanted them to know that – to know that she possessed the power to annihilate them all with a flick of her wrist. She held the unseen gaze of the vampire in the shadows of the upper floor until it averted its eyes. She knew when that had happened, just as she knew many more things. She wielded great magic, and she was secure in its power.

She waited at the door without knocking. They would know that she was here; she would not debase herself by knocking and requesting entrance. They would invite her in; they would beg her to enter and speak to them. They knew that if they didn't, the penalty would be swift and final.

Just as she predicted, the door opened and a scrawny undead corpse dressed in a ragged sweater that smelled sharply of decay bowed low to her. He gestured her in, growling something she took to be an invitation, but came out more like a frightened squeak. She stepped into the musty hall of the once grand home.

The home had, indeed, been grand once. In the early days of Sunnydale, it had belonged to a prosperous merchant and his family. He had entertained here – friends, strangers, the elite of California. He had been well loved by all, except for his own son. His son had hated him.

The reasons were lost to history. Some would argue that old man was unapproachable, or too critical, or that he didn't hug his son enough. Others would argue that the boy had been born without a soul at all, which was probably closer to the truth. Such births were uncommon, but they happened; the results were usually both terrible and tragic. Whatever the cause, the boy allowed hatred and envy to smolder inside for years.

It was at that time in his life when he came to know about the darker side of Sunnydale and its inhabitants. In the terrible glory of the Hellmouth he had found the power and desire to destroy his father. He had also found many among Sunnydale's underside to help him.

No one quite knew what had happened that terrible night – the night he had called upon the darkest powers to grant him glory and vengeance. But the house had been abandoned ever since; the smell of blood never seemed to leave the air. Not even demolition crews had been able to complete the task of destroying it. And so it stood, empty and ancient and evil. It was a perfect home for demons.

The Seventh Speaker detected the odor of blood in one small compartment of her brain the same way as one might note that the sky is blue or the grass is green; it was a thought to be registered and quickly forgotten, for it had no real bearing on anything else that needed to be done. She walked through, noting the shrinking shadows of left over evil that crawled along the walls, just as one might see the passing foot traffic on the street. She was here to talk to the current residents, nothing more.

Entering the parlor, she found them lounged about on bits of flotsam – a moth eaten couch, a mildewed beanbag chair. They cowered at her as she stood before them, attempting to sink into the bits of furniture they inhabited. She smiled at them – a smile that only made them cower more.

"Good evening, worms," she said. "I have a change in your little job."

"Change?" they asked suspiciously. 

"A simple one, really. I don't care about the girl any longer."

They hissed at this. One of them began to rise, but a small movement of her wrist was enough of a threat to send him scurrying back to his place. 

"You can have any girl you want when the job is done – I'll make sure you have the power to simply charm them into your lovely home." She smiled ingratiatingly. She knew it was a lie, and she was sure that they knew it was a lie as well. But they had little choice but to obey her. "Instead, I want you to kill someone."

They seemed slightly more pleased with this turn of events. "Who?" they asked. "Yes, tell us who."

"Another vampire – one named Spike. Find him; kill him. Preferably while she's watching."

"We don't kill our own, not even for you," one said bravely. His eyes darted back and forth to his comrades, hoping they would stand with him should it come to a fight.

"Oh, but he'd kill you," she replied smoothly. "He calls the girl 'sweet-cheeks' and says that 'he'd do anything for her.' Oh, you'll kill him all right – not because I asked you to, but because he deserves to die."

With that pronouncement, she turned and left the house. The light of dawn was just touching the street as she exited. She had timed her visit to forestall any thought of pursuit they might have. She was quite pleased with herself.

She had recruited this band of vampires from Sacramento – close enough to be convenient but isolated enough to not have a good lay of the land here in Sunnydale. She had gone to their lair and slaughtered their master with the flick of her hand. A handful of spells later and they were bound to her, slaves to be disposed of as she saw fit. They were tools for her use.

Her original plan had been for them to attempt to kidnap Buffy. She had first considered having them try to kill the Slayer, but there was always an off chance that they might succeed at that through sheer dumb luck. Instead, she had prohibited them from killing her – a prohibition designed to ensure their own destruction. And if they had somehow succeeded in kidnapping her, she could always fall back on others to free the girl. She didn't want Buffy harmed, she wanted her to wonder who was behind a plot against her.

The discovery that she was friendly with Spike had put a crinkle in her plans. Any old vampire would not have been a problem, but this particular vampire was. She knew all about Spike, all about his potential. What she had not known was how close he was to the Slayer. Spike needed to be eliminated. Suddenly, she realized that she could kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of Spike, and the Slayer will wonder who was behind it. Spike's own words had proved to be exactly the force she needed to get willing cooperation from her slaves. Too bad she had to take his words out of context; it would have been a much bigger delight if he really did like the Slayer.

It was all going perfectly.

* * *

"Congressman, there's something you should see." The demon, Ray, held up a computer printout and waited for Congressman Greene to get off the phone. He stood patiently as the Congressman chatted through an issue with one of his donors, assuring him that he would do all he could and thanking the donor for his generous support. After a few moments of chatting, he hung up the phone and waved Ray in.

"What is it?" he asked, gesturing to the paper.

Ray handed over the printout. "You asked me to flag any requests that came in regarding The Initiative. I've managed to get most of the sources flagged, including the sub-committee database. Looks like we got a hit."

The Congressman looked over the paper. "Congressional aide, huh? Former CIA operative. What's the number trace here?"

"That's the only phone call he got that seemed out of the ordinary. It may be nothing, but I kinda figured that a call out of the blue from an odd place followed by a query on a secure database was somewhat suspicious."

The Congressman nodded slowly in agreement. "True enough. So, somebody made a call from a phone booth in Sunnydale. Simple, untraceable. What did the aide do?"

"Haven't figured that out that. Probably didn't call, though. Best guess would be an encrypted email from a public service. No hopes of tracing that." Ray shrugged.

"Okay, so what do we know about who's who in Sunnydale?" the congressman asked, tossing the paper back to Ray.

"Not nearly enough," Ray said. "Might I make a suggestion?"

"Shoot."

"Why don't we add Sunnydale to our tour itinerary. I'm set to announce a revised schedule tomorrow, anyway. We could add it to the list and then poke around while we're there."

"Won't that be tipping our hand a bit?" the congressman asked.

"Well, it is in the district," Ray said, rubbing his jaw. "Besides, it might upset their plans to know we're planning a visit."

The congressman thought for a long moment. "All right, add it. I've needed to check on things in Sunnydale for a while. I think the visit will be good for checking on both constituencies – demons and humans."

"You got it, boss," Ray said, walking out of the office.

* * *

Benjamin Cook knocked on the Major's door and waited to be beckoned inside. He glanced down at his handheld which contained the information he had requested from and old CIA buddy. The information about the demon Spike would be of interest to MacKenzie, which is exactly why he was bringing it to Sheffield first.

Sheffield waved Cook in, who handed him the small computer. Sheffield raised an eyebrow at the information, but made no other comment. He handed the computer back to Cook. "Ben, why did you ask for this?"

"MacKenzie's orders, sir. I thought that you should see it first, though."

Sheffield didn't respond to this. He simply thought for a moment and then nodded once. "Mr. Cook, while this information is interesting, Spike's threat status is none of our concern. I didn't ask because we don't need to know. Delete this information at once, and do not disclose it to anyone else. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir!" Cook responded.

"And Mr. Cook, if Captain MacKenzie has any more intelligence requests, please direct him to me. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" Cook responded once again. This time, though, he had to suppress a smile. He didn't like MacKenzie, and was rather overjoyed to know that he had gotten him in trouble with the Major.

"Dismissed," Sheffield said and watched Cook exit. The information was, indeed, interesting. The Americans had, supposedly, neutered the vampire and eliminated him as a threat. Sheffield, however, did not concur with their sentiment. Until this assignment, he hadn't believed in demons. Now he saw them for what they were – a threat to humanity in any form. Spike was fair game in his book.

* * *

After classes, Willow and Tara reported to the Magic Box as ordered. Madame LaFusce began immediately drilling them on spell basics. What is the primary use of belladonna? What is the Latin name of the two-faced god Janus? How does one harvest nightshade?

Had it been a written test, both girls would likely have done fine. However, Madame LaFusce insisted on oral responses. Willow was able to adapt adequately to this challenge, but poor Tara began to flounder immediately. In the best of circumstances, the painfully shy Tara stuttered. Under the iron gaze of Madame LaFusce, every mistake compounded upon itself making the situation worse and worse.

For her part, Willow was becoming increasingly angry. She didn't like the way Madame LaFusce was treating her love, and she was slowly losing control of her emotions. With each answer she gave Madame LaFusce, her tone become more and more defiant. With each edge of defiance, Madame LaFusce asked harder and harder questions. Giles, watching the proceedings, was sure it was going to erupt into violence.

Finally, though, the quizzing ended. Madame LaFusce scribbled a long sheaf of notes at the end, leaving the two young women standing there silently. When she was done, she looked up at them. "Barely acceptable," she said coarsely.

Willow was about to protest, but Tara placed a restraining hand on her arm. Madame LaFusce stood up abruptly and turned to Giles. "I hesitate to think what might have happened had they been tested any earlier than this. Had you any fewer brains, it would have been an unmitigated disaster." Giles, who had been about to offer some explanation, swallowed his words in shock.

"However," she continued, before anyone else could speak, "the Trial will be held tomorrow as planned. I have made arrangements at this address." She passed Giles a folded slip of paper. "Do try to be there on time." Abruptly, she turned and left.

Giles, Willow and Tara were left dumbfounded and openmouthed. "Who's idea was it to catch flies?" Buffy asked as she looked in on them. "I saw Madame LaFusce leave. Apparently she left you all monument-like."

Giles recovered first, shaking off his shock. "Yes, well. The good news is that the Trial will be held tomorrow as planned."

"And the bad news?"

"I'm not sure my nerves can take it." He left them, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

"Well, I guess tomorrow's the day," said Willow, little realizing that it had the potential to be the last day of her life.

  



	10. Chapter 9 Who's Afraid of Big Bad Spik...

**  
** Chapter 9 

Who's Afraid of Big Bad Spike?

Sunnydale – May 10th

"No, Mr. Giles, these girls are not ready to be tested any further."

All the events of the last nine days had led up to this moment for Willow. Weeks of cajoling Giles and preparing for the Trials had led up to now, and all her hopes were slipping away. The battle with the demons had left her half dead, and only Tara's healing spell allowed her consciousness. But Madame LaFusce was ending it all. Right now. If she didn't do something, Madame LaFusce would walk out the door and she would have failed. If she didn't do something _right now_, she might never get an opportunity to practice magic again.

"I can do better," she protested. "Honest. Give me another test. Anything. I'm ready. Right now, anything." She was desperate. 

No sooner had the words left her mouth than the warehouse filled with the groan of tearing metal. _Creeeeaaaakkk_. The sound went from loud to teeth-aching in a matter of moments. And then it abruptly stopped.

            "It looks like you've got your chance," Madame LaFusce said dryly.

The creaking was replaced by a rumbling that seemed to grow louder with every heartbeat. Willow was suddenly aware of just how dangerous this test could turn out to be. Then came the _thum_, thum_ of heavy footsteps. A moment later, a massive creature wandered around the corner. His name, it would turn out, was Sam. For now, in her own mind, she simply called him _big_._

"Holy Jurassic Park, Batman!" Xander had exclaimed.

Giles simply said, "Oh dear."

Buffy had stepped up next to Willow as Tara gripped her arm. "Willow, you don't need to do this," she had argued. "That thing is big. And big usually means dangerous. And you just almost got yourself killed. Once a night is enough, you know. You didn't ask for this."

"Actually, I did," Willow answered as she prepared to face the threat coming towards them.

He was huge, stooped over, and built like a Mack truck. Even bent double, he stood at least seven feet tall. Had he been standing erect, he would've been more like ten or twelve feet. He weighed in at about a ton, all of which seemed to come crashing down with each and every step. He moved slowly, but his alert eyes darted quickly about taking in every detail. Huge tusks protruded up from his lower jaw and over his massive lips. He stopped when he saw them all there and sniffed predatorily.

"Me smell witches," Sam grumbled out throatily. "Likes'em, me does – all roasted up and juicy." He lumbered forward towards them.

"Well, Miss Rosenberg, what are you waiting for?" Madame LaFusce sniffed indignantly. She seemed completely unafraid of the behemoth approaching them.

Gaining confidence from the Frenchwoman's lack of fear, Willow stepped away from the group to engage the giant in magical combat. Taking a steadying breath, she centered her inner calm and tapped into her magical reservoirs. Calmly, she began an incantation and released a ball of green fire at the creature. He did not even flinch. She then tried lightning, with similar result. He continued to advance. Needing to buy time, she cast a magical barrier in front of him. Sam paused, but only long enough to lick his chops before simply walking through it. Willow cast more attacks at him. She attempted to shift his position in space to no effect. She tried energy darts, which only seemed to tickle him. She became steadily more panicked.

Closer he advanced, step by step. Soon he towered over her, breathing down in a whirlwind of fetid breath. Willow tried another spell, this one at point blank range, her voice rising in panic. Again, it seemed to simply absorb into the creature. Sam began to laugh a slow, ragged laugh that cascaded more of the stinking breath down upon her. "Me eat you now," he said matter-of-factly.

Willow turned back to the group standing behind her, every one of them prepared to fight to defend her, only being held back by the iron gaze of Madame LaFusce. Asking for help would be failure; the alternative could be death. Then she heard _his_ voice.

"ere now, Sammy, wot's you up to?"

"Spike!" the monstrous voice grumbled out like a glacier cracking in half.

"Spike?!" Willow yelped, spinning back around to see the black leather clad vampire standing between her and the hulking demon.

"Spike!" exclaimed nearly everyone else behind her, except for the more articulate Giles, who proclaimed, "Dear Lord, what is Spike doing here?"

Madame LaFusce was silent, but Willow could hear the unnaturally loud scribbling of her pen on the clipboard.

"What Spike want?" Sam asked.

"Me? Nothin', mate. I just thought I'd come watch the bloody destruction. You know, front row seat and all." Spike stepped back from between Sam and Willow, arms spread. Willow could see that his face was altered into its full vampire form. "So, uh, Sammy, where do you want your body sent?"

The massive creature had begun to move forward, but suddenly stopped. "What Spike mean, _my_ body. This one have nothing but puny spells."

"Oh, right, yeah. Well, you and I both know that you actually eat magic, so no spell is going to accomplish anything. Of course, she knows that, too," he glanced over at Willow meaningfully. It was clear to Spike that she knew nothing of the kind. He hoped she could pick up on the clues he was dropping. "So I can only assume that she was luring you into range." Spike was trying to look innocent, something he didn't do very well.

"Range of what?" the creature asked. "What can she do?"

"Well," Spike said, drawing it out. "I probably shouldn't give it away."

"Spike!" yelled both Willow and Sam simultaneously.

Spike held up his hands in mock surrender. "Allright, allright. Fine. I'll spill. I suppose nobody told you that she's a black belt in Karate. No? Didn't think so. Always being unfair to us demons, you know. Nobody ever tells us the full story." Spike shook his head in mock disgust. "And that one over there, the blonde – I suppose nobody told you that she's the slayer."

"No!" Sam cried in disbelief.

"Bloody yeah," Spike shot back. "And here you are, able to eat all the magic they can throw at you, but with a pain threshold so low that simple slap could send you crashing down into a quibbling heap more pathetic than last year's jell-o." Spike shook his head dramatically at the inhumanity of it all. 

The vampire took a deep breath and looked up, collecting himself. "So, in the interest of fairness to demons and all, I thought I'd come by when I heard it was you that got set up. I mean, I've always liked you Sam, and I just couldn't stand by to see this injustice." Spike paused to light a cigarette. He took several drags, focusing on nothing in particular. The silence in the air was palpable. He then looked up, surprised to see both Sam and Willow staring at him. "Wot? I've said my peace, now you two do that battle-to-the-death thing you're all so fond of. Like I said, I'm just here to watch."

Sam gazed at Spike a moment longer, then turned to Willow. "Is he telling the truth?" he asked suspiciously. Willow noted that he had switched from the simple speech to a rather normal, if accented, English. _Scares folks more when he talks dumb like that_, Spike would inform her later.

Willow put on a brave face. "Yeah, Spike's telling the truth. So … so, put up your dukes and let's have it out." Willow put up a boxing pose to emphasize her words.

Sam looked over Willow at the crowd watching. He sniffed the air several times, tasting the scent. Then he focused on Madame LaFusce. "Sorry, but you didn't mention the Slayer. Or an audience," he stared at Spike meaningfully. "I'm outta here – and I'm keeping the money," he added. Then he turned and lumbered off. Only Willow heard him say, "Thanks, Spike, I owe you one," out of the side of his mouth.

Madame LaFusce walked up and gazed at Spike, seemingly unafraid of the vampire. "Who are you, that you should interfere in my testing?" she asked harshly.

"Name's Spike," he said. "Who the hell are you?"

That's when things went downhill.

*** * ***

An hour later, it was all over but the crying. Everyone had returned to the Magic Box following the end of the Trial. Willow was crushed. Having no words of comfort to offer, Giles made tea.

            Willow slumped over her tea and stared at the book before her. She knew, deep down, that she should be grateful for how understanding Madame LaFusce had been. In her own brusque and somewhat offense manner, the tiny Frenchwoman has been almost kind – especially after how things had turned out.

            If it had just been her near-death encounter with the korlorf demons, things may have been salvageable. Indeed, up to that point, she had done the test all on her own. She hadn't needed any saving from anyone. And even if she hadn't done the task efficiently, she had at least done it. To some degree, though, fate seemed to play its own quirky sense of humor into the situation. At least that's what she had tried to tell everyone when it had all come hopelessly apart.

            "Well, this is just one of those wacky twists of fate, now isn't it?" she had said bravely as Madame LaFusce had stormed out of the building.

            "Well, if you think of, 'How can I conspire to completely ruin every hope you ever had of ever being taken seriously,' as 'wacky', then yes, I think it is," Xander had said. Xander had a wonderful way with ironic humor, but very little tact.

The book she had, _The Basic Guide to Common Demons_, was a gift from Madame LaFusce. Or at least it would have been considered a gift if Madame LaFusce had liked Willow even a little. Instead, it felt more like a curse. It was an 'elementary' guide to understanding the most common demons one was likely to encounter and what their known powers and weaknesses were. "Here," Madam LaFusce had said as she quickly packed her things to leave the warehouse. "Read this and we'll see if you learn anything. If so, there might be hope for you yet." The delegate from the watcher's council then marched off in rather profound huff.

It wasn't the failure of the final test that had pushed Madame LaFusce over the edge. It wasn't even that someone had rescued Willow from the test. No, it was _who_ had rescued her that had been the disaster. Of all the things that could happen, of all the outcomes she could have foreseen, this was the worst. All because _he_ had rescued her.

"Cheer up, honey," Tara said, sitting next to her at the round table at The Magic Box. "You tried, right? And you did your best. I'm very proud of you, no matter what happened."

Willow tried to put on a brave smile, but it was no use. She was simply too upset and humiliated to put on a brave face. This was quite extraordinary, since putting on a brave face was something that Willow rather excelled at. But this time it was simply not to be – not even Tara could get Willow to smile.

Buffy sat down at the table with her own cup of tea. "It could be worse," Buffy said optimistically. "Nothing quite comes to mind right away, but I'm sure it could've been worse."

"Yeah. Why get your knickers all in a bunch over some over-the-hill frog and a bunch of know-it-all pond-hoppers, eh?" The voice that broke in belonged to Spike, 

Spike lit up a cigarette as he took the book from in front of Willow. "Nice piece," he said as he flipped through the pages. "Did you nick it from the old bag?" he asked, referring to Madame LaFusce. "Can't say as they did my kind much justice," he commented absently as he flipped through the pages and stopped on an illustration of vampires.

Buffy took the book from his grasp and handed it back to Willow. "This belongs to her, _William_, and no, she didn't steal it. Now, is there a particular reason you're here, or should I just stake you for the pure fun of it?"

"Tempers, geez," muttered Spike. "And don't call me William," he continued menacingly. 

"Why not, it is your name, isn't it?" Buffy challenged.

"The name is 'Spike.' And in case you'd forgotten, it was Spike who got little miss redhead here out of trouble with Sam an hour ago."

"Oh, believe me, I haven't forgotten," said Buffy. "And I also haven't forgotten about how you 'stood up' to Madame LaFusce." The sarcasm hung in the air between them like a thick fog.

"Yeah," said Willow, "tough Spikey really gave it to her." She narrowed her gaze at him with unconvincing menace. "If only you hadn't interfered, I would've figured it out without you."

"No you wouldn't have," Spike retorted back. "Sam wasn't gonna fall over for you, ya know. He wasn't particularly going to do anything but roast you up and eat you for a nice snack. But old Spike, here, was there to stop him. And what kind of thanks do I get? None. I wonder who sucked all the gratitude out of you lot."

Spike was correct, in a sense. He had, in fact, saved Willow from Sam. But in doing so, he hadn't saved her from Madame LaFusce. Indeed, he had put the nail in Willow's coffin when it came to the Trial.

Spike sat down at the round table with the others and absently rubbed his bruised knuckles. "You know," he said to no one in particular, "I put my neck out for you guys when Sam was called in, but I didn't see a single person jumping to my rescue when that old French bat tried to stake me."

"Spike, it was a ruler, and she used it to slap you across the knuckles," Buffy pointed out exasperatedly. "And you know, as soon as she did, you were suddenly like, 'Oh sorry, ma'am,' and, 'The name's William, ma'am.' Did you have some kind of traumatic experience with a schoolteacher when you were young or something?"

Spike would've blushed if he wasn't undead. Instead, he stood up defensively. "Who told you about that? Nobody's supposed to know about old Missus O'Brian." He paused, looking at the blank stares from around the table. "Look, I took care of her. Went to her house right after I was turned and decided to put her out of her misery. Nobody gets away with treating me that way." Spike looked around the room daring anyone to contradict him.

"What way?" Buffy asked, confused.

"You know," replied Spike, withdrawing a bit. "Always correcting my grammar, telling me my letters weren't right, that sort of stuff."

"You went back and killed your grammar school teacher?" Buffy asked, appalled.

Giles cleared his throat. "That would explain it," he said absently.

"Explain what?" Buffy asked.

"Well, there's a record in the Watchers' histories of a collection of papers found in the possession of an old tutor woman. It appeared to be Spike's handwriting, but the text was, 'I will not drink blood without permission.' One hundred times, wasn't it, Spike?"

"Yeah, well, I was pretty new to the whole vampire thing that time. And she caught me by surprise, is all. And besides, I went back to get her a few years later." Spike sniffed as if that settled the matter.

"The Watchers' histories say she died of natural causes," Giles commented.

"So I was a little late, big deal. That's hardly the point. The point is that I stood up for her," he pointed at Willow, "and no one stood up for me. Well, to hell with you lot." He thrust a finger into the cover of the book Madame LaFusce had given Willow. "Study it well, Red, because next time old Spike may not be there to save you." He turned and walked towards the basement door of the Magic Box, which lead to the sewers that he used to move around Sunnydale.

_Don't worry, Willow said to herself, watching him go. _I'll study it. Because next time, I'll be ready.__

"You tried to kill your grammar school teacher," Buffy was saying, a small giggle bubbling up inside her. "And you ended up staying after school and writing sentences instead. Oh that is too much!" She laughed, and the others, even Willow, smirked.

"Bugger off, all of you," Spike shouted. "And don't come crying for me next time you're in a jam." He left in an offended huff.

As the door slammed behind Spike, Xander looked around incredulously. "Oh please, like any of _us_ are ever going to need a rescue from _Spike_."

  



	11. Chapter 10 The Hit

**  
** Chapter 10 

The Hit

Sunnydale – May 11th 

"Spike! Help!" Buffy called out desperately. Two vampires held her tightly while a third kicked her in the head. Spike turned from the vampire he was fighting and leapt on the one who had just kicked her, the force of his momentum knocking him aside. Buffy twisted enough to deliver a bone breaking kick to the knee of one of the vampires restraining her, then stepped quickly backwards and bent over, throwing the other vampire over her shoulders and several yards away. "Thanks," she said casually to Spike, who was locked in a life and death struggle with the vampire he had snatched away from her.

"Don't bloody mention it," he squeezed out raggedly.

The vampire with the broken leg attempted to crawl away, but two quick strides brought Buffy to it, and a swift stroke down of her wooden stake saw the creature obliterated into dust. Two vampires now circled her – the one she had thrown and the one Spike had originally been fighting. They moved more cautiously now that one of their own had been killed.

"Decisions, decisions," Buffy said aloud, blatantly mocking her two enemies. "I think I'll start with you in the raggedy sweater, because that sweater is just an absolute crime." She moved rapidly to her left, and in a flurry of blows managed to stake the creature. She turned to face the other. "One fashion victim down, one to go."

Spike, meanwhile, was hit repeatedly by the vampire he was fighting. Step by step he was knocked backwards. Punch drunk, he staggered around a tombstone and then leaned on it, facing his adversary, holding up one hand in supplication. "Now hang on there, mate. Look, what have you and I got to fight about, eh? Why don't we just call it a night, and go grab a pint together. What say?"

"You kill your own," the creature growled, "so now one of your own is going to kill you."

"Now wait just one bloody minute," Spike began to argue, standing straight up and pointing at the other vampire. "You can't really blame me, now can you? I got this bloody chip in my head that prevents me from harming any humans, right. So here I am, a vampire, with nothing to kill. So, maybe I took out a little bit of rage on a few other vampires. Let me tell you something, they deserved it. It's not like we was friends or anything. And it wasn't one of the respected elders, neither. It was just a bunch of rotters who didn't stick with the way things are supposed to be here in Sunny-D. That doesn't have nothing to do with you and I being mates, now does it?"

The other vampire approached menacingly. "Word among some is that you're all soft on the slayer, all in _love with her. Word is you kill our kind to get in good with her. You're a vampire, but you kill other vampires in order to make the Slayer love you back."_

Spike lit a cigarette. He took a puff as he pondered his opponent's words. "Well," he said, taking another drag. "There is that, too, I guess," he said finally through the cigarette in his mouth, both hands free to fight. 

The admission left the other vampire startled for a moment, but a moment as enough. Spike whirled and snatched up the grave-digger's shovel that had been left behind the tombstone, and belted the other vampire's head like a fastball in a world series game. The metal edge of the shovelhead was enough to slice through the neck of the creature, sending the head sailing. Both head and body turned to dust in mid-flight. Spike leaned on the shovel, admiring his work and taking another drag of the cigarette. "He was getting boring anyway."

He looked up to see Buffy approaching. "Nice shot," she said. "Looking to break into the majors?"

"We play cricket in England," he said peevishly. Something was definitely wrong with the whole attack; something he couldn't quit put his finger on. "Not that you would know that, then. You being all cheerleaderly and all." He paused and took another drag.

The attack was beginning to gnaw on him, but he didn't know why. And that was making him feel rather testy. And while he couldn't hurt humans physically, he could certainly be mean to them. "So, where'd you leave your pom-poms, eh? Left them with some of your little high-school friends now? Maybe you should depend on them to get your over-developed hiney out of trouble next time."

"What do you mean, overdeveloped hiney?" Buffy asked, her considerable vanity hurt by the accusation.

"Let's just say that you haven't been a size six in quite a while. Actually, you're probably pushing one size for every year your sister's been around." He smiled cruelly at her.

"Now wait one minute," Buffy practically shouted. "Dawn is fifteen. There is no way I'm anywhere close to that size."

"Really?" Spike said. "Well, maybe I'm wrong, then. It's not like _I_ need to be paying Jenny Craig a visit, now is it? Now then, would it be all right with you if I went home and caught a bit of the telly? Conan has J-Lo on tonight."

"Big J-Lo fan, are we?" Buffy hissed, still mad at Spike for his comments.

"Well, at least _she's_ still a size six," Spike replied. Spike's natural belligerence was magnified in response to the other vampire's accusations and the whole set-up of the attack. Truth be told, he was more than a little bothered by the thought that word of his growing obsession with Buffy should be getting around. He was not welcome by the rest of the scoobies. If word got out that he was killing demons to make points with the Slayer, he would no longer be welcome in demonic circles, either. The fact that killing was a need for him, and that demons were the only thing left he could kill, would be of no consequence. He would truly be alone at that point. He'd rather go back to his crypt and be alone voluntarily than to have it forced upon him.

What bothered him even more, though, is how those rumors were circulating. The vampires they had fought this evening were new to town. They weren't well connected with any of the other members of Sunndale's demon community. They also knew too much about Buffy's routine. The ambush they had set up might have worked had Spike not been patrolling with Buffy. It's doubtful that it was simply chance.

The vampires had jumped out from behind two large tombstones less than one hundred yards from Spike's crypt. Two had jumped up and attacked immediately when Spike and Buffy had walked between the two stones. Buffy had moved forward to engage them and a third appeared. Spike was just about to charge in when the fourth had come at him from behind. The vamp had almost succeeded in staking Spike in the back when Spike had smelled him. The raggedy sweater that Buffy had insulted earlier was also a very smelly sweater – a fact that, combined with the greater acuity of vampire senses, had allowed Spike continued existence. Had the vampire killed Spike, Buffy would have never even seen the creature that would have killed her. But instead of one dead slayer and one neutered but also dead vampire, there were four piles of dust a few yards from Spike's home.

"You go ahead," Buffy said, trying not to sound irritated at Spike's tone of voice. "I'll just finish the loop and head back home."

"Whatever," Spike said irritably. "Try not to need me anymore tonight."

"Aye, aye," Buffy said with a mock salute, and so they parted.

An hour later, Buffy was home. She checked on her mom and her sister before trying to catch the few hours of sleep she allowed herself before having to get up for class. Something about the night's patrol had really bothered Spike. While he was normally less than congenial, tonight he was different. He was angry and distracted. Whatever it was that had set him off was important, Buffy was sure of it. Only she didn't have any idea what it could be. Probably the best choice would be to discuss it with the rest of the gang tomorrow.

* * *

The next afternoon, the whole group sat around the research table at The Magic Box. They stared at her incredulously.

"So, let me get this straight," Xander said slowly. "You're worried about Spike's _feelings_? Maybe we should just, I don't know, buy him a card."

 "Hallmark: When you care enough to send the very best," Dawn, Buffy's fifteen-year-old sister, chimed in encouragingly. Dawn was rather infatuated with Spike, but at the moment the thought that such a thing might happen was so inconceivable to everyone that they did not notice.

"He actually accused you of being a size fifteen, and you want to be nice to him?" Anya was rather incredulous. "I don't get it. I mean, he practically said that you'd put on eight dress sizes, and we all know it's only been two or three."

"It's not a Hallmark card thing," Buffy said, desperately ignoring Anya.

"You mean, it's more of a take him out and buy a few beers, or, uh, bloods, kind of thing?" Willow suggested, trying to be helpful and supportive of Buffy.

"Or maybe a cake," Tara suggested, following suit.

"Yeah, 'Sorry to dust up your front yard with dead demons, even if your front yard is a cemetery,' kind of cake," offered Willow. "Or a, 'Sorry my overdeveloped hiney needed saving' kind of cake."

"No. Wait a minute." Buffy held up her hand. "First of all, my hiney is just fine. And I am _sooo_ still a size six." She took a moment to glare at everyone, to make sure that there was no further discussion on the issue. "Second, I'm worried about Spike's feelings, but not I-want-to-make-him-feel-better worried. I'm more I-wonder-what-this-means worried. Get it?"

"Buffy has a point," said Giles slowly. The watcher put his chin in his hand and thought for a moment. "The thing about Spike is that he's fairly predictable. His response to combat has always been one of excitement bordering on euphoria. If this attack brought on a different response, it really behooves us to discover why."

"I'll tell you why," said Spike, emerging from the store's basement. From the sewer he could enter the basement of the Magic Box, leading sudden appearances.

"I've got to remember to put a bell on that door," muttered Giles to himself. 

"Hey, Spike," Dawn said cheerily.

"Well, speak of the devil and … okay, it's just not worth it," offered Xander.

Everyone waited for Spike to continue talking. "Don't leave us all hanging like a … uh … hanging thing," said Buffy finally. "What's up?"

"There's a contract out on me," Spike said matter-of-factly. "That ambush wasn't for little miss blondie, here. It was for me."

"Sorta like the Sopranos," commented Buffy, "only with demons."

"Are you sure about this?" Giles asked.

"Yeah," Spike said. "I made a few inquiries this morning. Turns out those blokes were out of Sacramento. A guy I know who knows folks up there made some calls. They were hired out to do a contract job a couple days ago. When they got here, they started asking after me – where I lived and stuff like that."

"Extraordinary," Giles said.

"Okay, but am I the only one here thinking, 'So what?'" Xander asked.

"Yes, you are," Dawn shot back.

"Well, Xander does have a point. This is, apparently, demon business. I'm not sure we should interfere in this case." Giles was clearly trying to not get involved.

"Oh bugger off," Spike exclaimed. "I don't know why I even bother with you sots. But before you go and wash your hands of this whole thing, keep two things in mind. One, they almost got the Slayer last night. Two, the person who took the hit out on me was a human."

"That does complicate things," was all Giles, or anyone, had to say.

  



	12. Chapter 11 Complications

**  
** Chapter 11 

Complications

Sunnydale – May 12th 

"It's really not that complicated," Buffy said to Giles an hour later in the workout room in the back of the Magic Box. She spun and gave the heavy punching bag a vicious side kick, and followed it up with a strong one-two punch combination. Giles leaned heavily on the bag, trying to control the rotation. However, his ragged breathing seemed to indicate that it was he, not Buffy, who'd been doing most of the workout. "We just have to put on our logical brains, and you'll see that the right decision is totally clearsville."

"That's what you said an hour ago, Buffy; only nobody could understand what you were talking about then. To be honest, I still don't." Giles wiped the sweat from his brow, holding his hand up for a brief respite. "You say that it all makes sense, but there are simply too many possibilities. I'm really not sure which one is the most likely reason Spike was attacked."

"Giles, work with me here. It doesn't matter, because all the possibilities point to the same conclusion: we have to find out who is behind this." Buffy was confident, shaking her head emphatically.

"Okay then, let's assume that it is a human whom Spike has harmed before he was tampered with. They have a legitimate right to seek revenge, and we shouldn't interfere. That does not support your contention that we should find out who is behind this." Giles gave Buffy his best 'fatherly' stare to emphasize the point.

"Giles, those vamps almost got me in the process. If whoever is behind this is seeking revenge against Spike, they're being way too reckless about it. We had better find out before I get caught in the cross-fire again." Buffy began to hit the bag again as Giles moved back into position to consider her point.

"All right, you have a good point there. Though I'm not sure I agree, I'm not sure I can argue against it." Giles was uncomfortable with Buffy getting involved in the attempt on Spike's life, but he couldn't fault her reasoning on the most likely cause of the attack.

"The thing is," she continued on, interrupting his thoughts with a quick hand-foot combination, "that explanation is the least likely scene-thing."

"Scene-thing?" Giles was momentarily confused.

"Yeah. You know, the reason that somebody would do this." Buffy replied.

"Scenario," Giles supplied helpfully.

"That's it. Scenario. Anyway, that simply isn't what's going on here." Buffy looked up from hitting the bag to see the puzzlement on Giles face. "People who get victimized by vampires aren't selective in their revenge. They hate all vampires. That means they don't go hiring a bunch of vampires to do their dirty work. They stake'em when they see'em." A certainty burned in Buffy's eyes – a clarity Giles rarely saw in her. But when he did see it, he knew to trust it.

"All right, I follow. So, it isn't someone looking for revenge," Giles relented. "Who then? What the other possibilities?"

"The Initiative," Buffy offered returning to the workout. "Or some kind of government cleanup squad. I saw a movie about that. I think it had Brad Pitt."

Giles nodded ominously. "If that's the case, then we need to find them and stop them before they start another demon war. I mean the government squad, not Brad Pitt." The Initiative had sought to create the perfect solider by combining humans with demons. The prototype, Adam, had instigated a war deep in the underground bunker between demons and humans in order to get an assemblage of 'spare parts' with which to construct them. Buffy, with the help of the scoobies, was able to stop Adam's mad plan, but not before many humans and demons alike had died in the violent conflict. 

"All right, who else?" Giles asked, shaking himself from the memory.

"The Watcher's Council?" Buffy offered.

"No," Giles said after a moment's thought. "No, they wouldn't deal with vampires that way. When they use them, it is under very tight controls. Besides, they'd want to capture Spike, not kill him. They won't figure out that chip in his head unless his head is still there for them to see it wired in." Giles thought a moment longer. "What about some rogue demon hunters?"

"Same scenario as before. They'd kill the other vamps rather than use them."

"Hmm, why else would someone want to kill Spike?" Giles wondered.

"You mean, besides revenge, general principle, or he owes them money?" Buffy replied.

"Buffy, wait a moment." Giles stepped back as he worked through something troubling him deeply. "What if the attack on Spike wasn't about Spike _per se?" he said mysteriously._

"You mean, what if it really was about me. I thought of that. Giles, what is Spike, besides a vampire?" Buffy was fishing for Giles to come to the same conclusion she had.

"A pain in the arse," Giles muttered.

"Giles took the train to personalville, maybe he should come back now?" replied Buffy archly. Giles spared her a disparaging look, and then went back to thinking.

"He's the only demon in our little band," he said slowly. "That means there are some things he can do that none of the rest of us can." Giles stopped to clean his glasses, considering. "Buffy, I don't like where this is leading."

"Exactly. This has 'set-up' written all over it. They want Spike out of the way, because there's something about him being a demon that will let him pick up on whatever it is they're going to do to me." Buffy nodded for emphasis.

"And getting other vampires to do it is meant to throw us off the trail." Giles shook his head and muttered, "Diabolical. But how can we be sure?"

"We can't," said Buffy. "But it makes the most sense. Think about it, Giles. This is Sunnydale, not Peyton Place. People don't do normal things here, like try to kill people out of greed or revenge. There's always something more complicated at work. Something darker – sorta like living in a Pink Floyd album."

"Yes, well, I didn't realize you even knew who Pink Floyd was," said Giles, smiling slightly for the first time in the conversation.

" 'VH-1 Where are They Now?' It's a show about old guys," Buffy offered helpfully. "No offense," she added hurriedly.

"Well, they're younger than Spike," Giles muttered. "Speaking of, it appears that having Spike alive means we may have an advantage." 

"At least until we figure out how they're going to come after me." Buffy thought for a moment. "You know, it's not enough for Spike to have survived that attack. We need to keep Spike alive. That means keeping him hidden," Buffy smiled at Giles meaningfully.

"No. Absolutely not. He's stayed with me once already this millennium, he can find someplace else to stay this time." Giles voice rose until he was practically shouting.

"Giles, where else can he stay? Willow and Tara and I live in a dorm. Xander and Anya have just moved in together – and we'd rather not invite him in anywhere he hasn't already been. Besides, you guys are more compatible. You can do British stuff together." Buffy smiled again.

"British stuff?" Giles asked incredulously.

"Yeah, like drinking tea. And watching Masterpiece Theater. And eating bad food, not going to the dentist, and saying, 'Bloody,' a lot. And let's not forget …" Buffy struggled to think of more. "Let's not forget all that other British stuff." Buffy shrugged as if the whole matter were obvious. 

"We'll talk about that later," grumbled Giles, sensing defeat. "But first, we need to figure out how we're going to track down who did it and why."

"Not necessarily in that order," Buffy said. "While I track down who, you guys can track down why. Or at least work on some theories. If we have some idea as to who, it might help us figure out why." Buffy began toweling off why Giles muddled this over.

"All right. First, we need to see what Willow pulled off the Initiative's computers between the battle and when the government purged everything." Giles began to pace as he ticked off the tasks to be done. "Then we can search the reference materials and see if there's anything about a vampire's powers that might give us a clue. We can also see what Anya knows, or at least can suspect. She was demon for a thousand years, after all." He stopped, and looked at Buffy. "Just how did you plan on finding out who was behind this?"

"Easy," said Buffy. "These vampires got information from some of the local demons. I think it's time we got some information, too; even if somebody has to beat it out of them." She paused and looked around melodramatically, then feigned surprise. "And hey, look, I'm the Slayer. Who better to do it?"

"Well, be careful. I'll get everyone else started on things." Giles was worried, but had enough confidence in Buffy to let her do her job.

* * *

"Now, are we going to finish this, or do I have to finish you?" Buffy asked calmly. The demon she was holding against the wall, a sniveling green-skinned torborg named Vic, cast his yellow eyes about in anxious glances.

"Look, I'm tellin' you, I didn't do nothin'," the demon whined unconvincingly. "I wouldn't do nothin' to hurt old Spike."

"Really? You and he big friends, are you?" The Slayer contemplated the thought for a moment. "Funny, he doesn't seem the friendly type."

"Look, put me down and I'll try to explain it to you nice and simple-like, okay?" The demon pleaded. 

Buffy slowly lowered him down from the alley wall. "You run, I slay. Deal?" she said simply. He nodded vigorously. "Spill," she ordered.

Vic looked around self-consciously, making sure nobody could see them. Then he took a few moments in an exaggerated act of straightening his clothes. Growing agitated, Buffy clenched a fist, but Vic threw his hands up in submission. "Okay, okay, I'll spill. Look, ain't nobody Spike's friend. Not after he got rewired and all. He just ain't done nothin' to go deservin' no friends, see. But ain't nobody gonna mess with him, either. Spike's done too much to keep the scaries out of Sunnydale."

"I thought you were the scaries," Buffy replied tartly.

"Shows how much you know," countered Vic, pointing one misshapen finger at her. "You might think that we're afraid of you, Missy – "

"You mean you're not," Buffy postured.

"No, no, we are," Vic countered smarmily. "That's not the point. There are things that demons fear a lot more than you. That's all."

"Like what?" Buffy asked acidly.

"Management," Vic replied. Buffy was puzzled. Had he really said what she thought she had just heard him say? _Management?_ Her bewilderment emboldened the scaly demon. "Thought you knew everything, didn't you? But you don't know about the management. What? Did you think we demons just wandered around wherever we wanted in this pathetic dimension of yours?"

"Yeah, kinda," Buffy replied.

"Well we don't. We have management, just like you do," Vic nodded triumphantly.

"So are you saying everything you do is part of some grand, overall plan? Because if you are, you guys really suck at it." Buffy shrugged.

"No, it's not all some grand, pre-ordained plan. Well, some of it is, but not for most of us." Vic shook his head and sighed. "Most of us are just working class demons. You know, we have things were supposed to do in certain places, quotas to meet, orders to fill - the usual grind. Some of us have steady jobs; some of us are freelancers. We just try to do what we can and not attract too much attention from the management. 'Cause let me tell you, if you think we're nasty, you just wait until meet one of those guys."

"So what does Spike have to do with this?" Buffy asked.

"Spike's what we call 'Self-Employed.' That means that he don't have no manager looking over his shoulder. But let me tell you, the management don't like that. They don't like having elements in their territory that they can't control. So, guys like Spike know that they have to make sure things stay on a nice, even keel. They make sure that nobody does too much, and nobody does too little. That keeps the management from looking too close at this town, which means they don't come looking for him." Vic crossed his arms and nodded.

"And let me guess," replied Buffy. "The rest of you guys like that just fine."

"Hey," the demon said, spreading his arms, "we don't need management's attention any more than Spike does. So even though we don't like him all that much, we appreciate having him around." He paused a moment and reflected. "Plus, I think he owes just about everybody money, so nobody's going to dust him till he pays up."

"So, what does this have to do with those other vampires attacking Spike?" Buffy asked.

"Nothin', just like I said," replied Vic, looking around suspiciously.

"Why don't I believe you?" Buffy asked. "Maybe if I hit you some more, you'd remember some more. What do you think?" Buffy lifted a fist.

"No, no, I'll talk," Vic shrunk defensively.

"Hurry up, I'm getting bored," Buffy said.

"Okay," said Vic, looking clearly scared. "Those vamps who came through said they had a …" his voice dropped to a whisper, "management job." He looked around, worrying that very words would bring the evil hordes down upon him. "They even said it was …" his voice dropped again, "an executive contract." He shivered and looked around again.

"But I heard it was a human who hired them," Buffy said.

"Coulda been. Or it just coulda looked human. They do that, you know."

"The management?" Buffy clarified.

"Yeah, the management - especially the executives. They need to keep an eye on things down here, so they go about as humans. They take power as humans." Vic again looked around, afraid.

"What do you mean, they take power as humans?" Buffy asked.

"They take positions of power over your affairs." Vic replied.

"Like what, mayor?" Buffy's memory of the Sunnydale mayor made her shiver.

"Maybe, if there's a local problem. But the executives go for something bigger. Governor, congressman, stuff like that." Vic informed her matter-of-factly.

Buffy thought on this for a moment. "Did they say anything else?"

"Nah," Vic began, but as Buffy clenched her fist again he threw up his hands defensively. "Okay. They just said that they needed to get things cleaned up before he came to town. That's it. I swear it."

Buffy put her fist down. She had a lead, now, but she needed to check a few things out first. "Thanks," she said, and walked out the alley.

"No problem," Vic replied. "Anytime. And hey, if you see Spike, tell him he still owes me twenty kittens."

Buffy rejected the urge to gag. "I don't _even_ want to know," she muttered.

When he was sure she was gone, Vic pulled out his cell phone and dialed. A click was the only indication that he had that someone had picked up. No voice spoke on the other end of the line. "The slayer knows about the management visit," Vic said. He waited for instructions, but he only heard a small hum. A moment later, the hum burst into a high-pitched invocation, light burst from the phone's speaker, and Vic's brain melted. Before he hit the ground, Vic was dead.

* * *

            As Buffy walked home, she pondered the demon's words. Could this be true? Could some high-powered demon overseer be coming to Sunnydale? Some demon masquerading as a human? But who could it be, and how would she ever know? Buffy stopped at the corner and heaved a heavy sigh. Looking around, she spied a freshly stocked newspaper machine. The extra large headline on the Sunnydale Gazette caught her eye, and froze her heart:

            "Sunnydale Prepares for Congressional Visit."

  



	13. Chapter 12 A New Kind of Demon

**  
** Chapter 12 

A New Kind of Demon

Sunnydale – May 15th 

            "Jornikof!" Willow exclaimed, looking up from her computer.

"God bless you," Xander replied.

"No, no. Look, see. It's a jornikof demon. That's what's behind the attacks. I'm sure of it." Willow smiled proudly, waiting for everyone to congratulate her.

"Never heard of one," Spike replied.

"Me neither," offered Anya.

"Nor, I must admit, have I," said Giles. "Where did you find this?"

"In my new book, _The Basic Guide to Common Demons," Willow said, somewhat defensively. She was a little disappointed that no one was jumping up to offer her kudos._

"Um, Willow, not that I doubt you," said Giles cautiously, "but I've read that book a hundred times. I have several copies of it. And I do not ever recall any mention of a jornikof demon in it. Where, _exactly, did you find it?"_

"On the CD-ROM that came in the back," Willow supplied helpfully. She held up the book and flipped to the back cover, where there was a sleeve for a computer CD. "It has the full Basic Guide database, plus the Intermediate and Advanced databases, and several additional databases that I haven't figured out yet. This one was in the Really Rare Demons section of the Advanced database."

"CD-ROM?" Giles inquired quizzically.

"Yeah." Willow thought for a moment. "Say, Giles, how come we never used yours when doing this kind of research?" Willow asked a bit petulantly. "It would have really saved a lot of time."

"Well, those are a little after my time, actually," Giles replied, not sure of how to answer her. When had the council started issuing CD-ROM's?

"Hell, electricity is practically after your time, now isn't it?" Spike cracked sarcastically. 

Giles cast him a cold stare. "Perhaps a bit of garlic in your blood supply would provide some manners," he offered nonchalantly.

"You wouldn't," Spike challenged.

"Wouldn't I?" Giles mocked back.

"Boys," Buffy stepped between them, holding them apart. "Let's not get all testosterony here when Willow thinks she has a lead." 

"Mmmm, Testosteroni," exclaimed Xander. "The new meal-in-a-can for real men, from Chef Boy Ardee." No one even pretended to pay attention. "I'll just go back to my book now," he said with a self-depreciating shrug.

Giles and Spike looked warily away from one another and back to Willow. "Looks like Felix and Oscar aren't enjoying the togetherness," Buffy mumbled as she turned away from them. "Will?"

"Okay," began Willow. "You see, I looked in all the usual places and didn't find anything." She smiled as she began warming to her subject. "So, then I started checking these databases. Well, they have a pretty standard structure, see. So, I loaded them into Access and built a correlated subquery for any records referencing vampires as an enemy."

"Willow," prompted Buffy.

"Okay, I'm getting to it." She tapped a few keys on her computer to bring up the entry. "Let me read it to you. 'The jornikof demon is both extremely rare and extremely powerful. It has the unique ability to take over the form of a specific human given any sample of blood, hair or skin.'" She looked up at the surrounding faces. "Sounds like DNA replication. You know, it may create something like a magic retro-virus that rewrites the host with its own DNA. I read a paper about something like that for my last biology course. Or perhaps– "

"Willow!" said everyone simultaneously. Willow jumped slightly.

"Geez. Excuse me for being interested. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, 'The jornikof demon is detectable only by other body-inhabiting demons. The most common of these are vampires; however, since jornikof demons are so rare, only a few vampires have ever encountered one. None have survived the encounter.'"

"Swell," muttered Spike. "I hate odds like that."

"Anway," continued Willow, " 'The jornikof demon is otherwise undetectable by human means. Unlike vampires, which can be spotted through any number of normal observations, such as the lack of a reflection or the absence of a heartbeat, the jornikof has no observable difference from a normal human. Even most magical rites or spell components, common for detecting other forms of demonic possession, are powerless to expose or detect a jornikof.

"'The jornikof is the senior member of a genus _strificus_, or strife-causing demons. It exists to cause strife within groups of humans, and sometimes even other demons. A strife demon will manipulate one faction in a group against another, often driving them to violence. This demon does not act quickly or carelessly, though. It slowly builds a web of disharmony, often from a position of authority. They are known for their careful planning, and will often take preliminary steps of eliminating any perceived obstacles in their plans. This combination of stealth, patience, and remorselessness make it one of the most powerful and feared of all demons.'

"Okay, last part, so listen up. 'The jornikof demon is, however, very rare. It is always encountered having assumed some role of authority, usually of significance, such as a king or bishop.'"

"Or a rook," offered Xander drollishly.

"Or a congressman," added Buffy with deadly earnest.

"Let me finish," said Willow, shushing Xander with her hand. " 'The jornikof demon is incredibly strong, fast and vicious. It can be killed by mortal weapons, but since it possesses rapid healing powers, it must be dealt a single, fatal blow. However, its ability to avoid detection usually prevents this from happening. Those that have been detected and defeated by the forces of good …' That would be us. '… have done so through the Amulet of Arinoth. The amulet allows the wearer to see a jornikof demon for what it really is, and thus defeat him.'

"See? I think we have a match for our demon," Willow concluded.

"Well it certainly fits the M.O.," Anya commented, slamming her fist down. "Let's take'em down and throw the book at him. Only if it's a really big book, though."

"Anya's been watching TV cop shows," Xander explained, slightly chagrined. "She doesn't get all the slang quite yet." Anya had been human again for only a couple of years. In that time, she'd had a hard time adapting to modern life. She often confused the literal world and the entertainment world. She was also notorious for blurting out personal things, usually resulting in extreme embarrassment for Xander.

"Well, Anya is right, frightening as that may be," Giles commented. "This does fit the _modus operendi_ of our mystery assailant quite well. But it seems like the only way to be really sure if it is who we think it is appears to be dependent on getting this Amulet of Arinoth. Unfortunately, I'm not familiar with it, so I've no idea how to get it."

"And keep in mind, people," Buffy added firmly, "that if we're right about who it is, we only have ten days until his arrival here in Sunnydale." Each person in the room looked at the others, but nobody managed to make eye contact.

It had been three days since Buffy's interview with Vic. Three days since Buffy had torn open the newspaper machine, taken the Sunnydale Gazette, and read that Congressman Jackson Greene was coming to town in thirteen days. Thirteen – it had seemed an ominous portent then. Three days later, ten seemed much worse.

If what Willow had discovered was true, then they were in a desperate situation. While Congressman Greene was the most obvious candidate for the mysterious 'executive' who had apparently taken the contract out on Spike, they were by no means sure of that. And even if they were sure of it, they were still only acting on a theory that the contract was designed to leave Buffy vulnerable. There were only two ways they could really be sure – either get Spike close enough to the congressman to detect whether or not he was a demon, or get the Amulet of Arinoth.

The first option was immediately doable since they had Spike in hand, but it would require convincing Spike to risk his life to find out. Given the track record of previous encounters, it seemed that even if Spike was able to discover anything about the congressman, he was unlikely to live long enough to report the news to anyone else. The only option left was trying to find the Amulet of Arinoth. Normally, such a task would be relatively straightforward; but then, normally Giles had some inkling of what he was looking for. Willow had checked the databases on the CD-ROM that Madame LaFusce had given her, but there was no data on any magical items on that disk. The information it contained was strictly related to varieties of demons.

The worst part, though, was the gnawing fear of uncertainty. If Congressman Greene was a jornikof demon out to get her, then they had ten days left. But that was an awfully big 'if.' The real plot could be something altogether different. If that were the case, then Buffy could walk into a trap at any moment. And while Spike was still alive, and therefore technically capable of detecting whatever trap someone was laying in wait for her, they were forced to limit their use of the vampire in order to keep his survival a secret. But all that was only good if there was a plot against Buffy at all. If this was, in fact, a contract strictly on Spike and unrelated to her, then all their work was taking them in the wrong direction. They needed more information, and they needed it quickly.

"Willow," Buffy said, turning to her friend, "what's the status on the files from the Initiative?"

"The files were encrypted and I don't have the key, so I have the school's computers working on them," Willow said, a deep look of worry on her face. "I have to be careful not to use too much processing time or they might detect me; on the other hand, the University computers can do the work a lot faster than I could on my laptop. As soon as we're able to decrypt them, the mainframe will notify me automatically."

"Won't that take, like, months?" Buffy asked.

"Well, if I didn't have anything at all, it would," Willow replied. "But Riley gave me his encoding disk before he left. That will let me access the file with the main encryption keys in it. That's what the University computers are doing – trying Riley's key on all the files hoping one of them contains the master key."

"Okay, good. Not much else we can do about that right now," said Buffy. "Giles, any ideas on this Amulet of Arinoth?"

"A few," answered Giles. "I have a few friends back in England that I can ask. I can't officially make an information request to the watcher's council, but I still have a few unofficial channels. I'll see what I can do."

"Good. Spike, is there anyone else you can think of who might want to take a contract out on you?"

"Half a dozen, I'd say," Spike replied. "I'm not the most bloody popular fellow around, y'know. But I don't know of anyone who could pull it off – not like this. I could make a few inquiries, but that would ruin the whole Abbey Road motif we've got going on around here. Bloody well wouldn't want to do that." The fact that 'staying dead' meant that Spike wouldn't be asked to stick his neck out was a significant side benefit for Spike.

"Could somebody have invoked a vengeance wish?" Anya asked the room at large. "I mean, that's what I would've done if someone had wished on me to get rid of a loser like Spike. No offense."

"Oh, none taken, luv," Spike replied sarcastically.

"Anya, you were a vengeance demon for a thousand years," Buffy replied. "Would you have given up after one try?"

"Of course not," Anya said, somewhat offended.

"I didn't think so. There hasn't been another attempt on Spike, or anyone else. So, I think we can be pretty sure that it wasn't that."

"Well, excellent," replied a mollified Anya. "You know, vengeance is tough business. You gotta really stick to it in order to succeed. I doubt they'd put up with this sort of failure."

"That's my baby," Xander said with a mixture of admiration and embarrassment. "Real stick-to-it-iveness in the old maim and kill game."

"Okay," said Buffy with a deep breath. "Any other ideas?"

"Um …" a small voice murmured. Everyone looked over at shy Tara, who immediately responded with, "Never mind, it's probably stupid."

"No," said Willow, "it's not. C'mon baby, tell us what you're thinking."

"Okay, um …." Tara began and then looked down at her hands. With a little more encouragement from Willow, she spoke again. "Why don't we ask Madame LaFusce? When she gave Willow the book, she said we could call her if we came across anything we weren't sure about. And she said that she was going to be visiting her sister in L.A. for the month, so she'd be around. She even gave us her sister's number." Tara smiled weakly, waiting to see the reaction to her suggestion.

Spike was the first to react. "Oh bloody Hell, not that old witch. She practically killed me, remember." Everyone cast dark glances at him.

"While not the most pleasant person in the world, Madame LaFusce does seem to be quite skilled," Giles began, half-smiling through the painful memory of his own encounter with the woman. "And if we can convince her that there really is reason to believe that this is a jornikof demon, she _would_ be able to make an official request to the watcher's council. That could prove invaluable."

"All right, you and Willow do that. Good thinking Tara," Buffy complimented. "Xander, can you and Anya continue to look through the books?"

"Just call me research boy," Xander replied.

"Well, research _man might be more appropriate," Anya supplied suggestively. Everyone else grimaced._

"Okay, let's get to it," Buffy said, and the group began to disperse.

As he walked away, Spike muttered to himself, "I'm not sure I can meet up with that woman again and not kill her."

"You and me both," Giles added.

  



	14. Chapter 13 The Amulet

**  
** Chapter 13 

The Amulet

Sunnydale – May 20th 

"Madame LaFusce, won't you please come in," said Giles through a stunning smile. "It's positively lovely to see you again." Just moments before, the bell to the Magic Box had rung and everyone had looked up to see Madame LaFusce standing there. Giles was the first to react, but instantly everyone moved to make a place for the grumpy old Frenchwoman.

"We're so glad you could come back down to Sunnydale on such short notice," Buffy said, doing her best to be gracious. Madame LaFusce simply sniffed in reply. "Um … would you care for some tea?" She inquired politely.

"Yes, I would," the old woman replied. "You there," she shouted, pointing at Anya who was standing behind the counter, "get me some tea. The rest of you sit down and explain to me this poppycock you all called me about."

"Well, I wouldn't call it poppycock," Giles began calmly.

"Of course _you_ wouldn't," she replied instantly. "That's why I came back down, you know, to see whether or not your magic certificate needs to be revoked. Filling these girls heads with such preposterous things. Why, if they had been properly born on the continent instead of this godforsaken 'New World', they'd have been properly educated in the magical arts. I think you've done quite enough damage, _Rupert_." Her voice practically dripped with disdain, and Giles simply clamped his firm British reserve back into place. He wouldn't argue with this woman – not needing her help like they did. "Now then," she continued, taking her tea from Anya's trembling hands, "why doesn't one of you tell me what has happened so far? Not you, Mister Giles. I'd rather hear it from someone else."

Everyone looked back and forth at each other for a moment, much like school children in trouble wondering who was going to break first. After a few uncomfortable moments, Willow spoke. She began haltingly at first, waiting to become the object of Madame LaFusce's vitriol. Madame LaFusce, though, neither commented nor even looked at her. So Willow unfolded the tale.

When at last it was done, there was a long silence. Finally, Madame LaFusce looked around the table. "Is that it?"

"Yeah," said Buffy weakly.

"Preposterous," the old woman muttered. "I can't believe you dragged me all the way down here for this."

"We're sorry, Madame," Willow began, but the waving of LaFusce's hand stopped her in mid-sentence.

"No, dear, this isn't your fault," she said. Then, glaring at Giles, she continued, "More experienced and level heads should have prevailed here. Besides, my sister has become quite the bore here in America; it was a relief to have an excuse to get away for a few days. Be that as it may, I find it extremely unlikely that you have a jornikof demon running about. Extremely. I don't see how the amulet will be of any use to you."

"So you're not going to help us?" Buffy asked, anger beginning to build. "Someone is out there trying to kill one of us, and we have only five days left to figure out if it's the congressman or not."

"Don't jump to conclusions, girl," the old woman snapped back at Buffy. "I didn't say that I wouldn't help you. I said that I didn't think it would do you much good. However, I think experience with the amulet would be good for these young witches; much better experience than they're getting with Mr. Giles."

"So you can get the amulet?" Giles asked, unperturbed.

"No," she replied and then sipped her tea, savoring everyone's disappointment. "Not 'get,'" she said finally. "You do not 'get' the Amulet of Arinoth. You cast it. I happen to be very familiar with the spell, and I shall supervise the casting of it tomorrow night. Willow and Tara will do the actual casting under my guidance. Then, we shall see what we shall see."

"Excellent," said Giles, smiling. "I'll get what you need."

"No, Mr. Giles, you won't. You won't have any part of this whatsoever." Madame LaFusce's eyes took on a threatening glare. "And if we do not, in fact, have a jornikof demon on our trail, then you will not ever have a part in any magic again. Is that clear?"

"Of course, Madame," Giles said quietly, his jaw grinding his teeth against one another. When Willow made to protest on his behalf, he simply shook his head at her. The need to find the truth was more important than his own pride – he needed to remember that.

"Good," Madame LaFusce said after a moment. "I will make a list. Perhaps, Rupert, you'd like to take a couple of days off?"

"From my shop?" he asked, astounded.

"Yes," she replied. "I'm sure Anya can keep an eye on things. You, on the other hand, will simply be underfoot."

Giles looked around the room, seeing the support on the faces of his friends. If he were to refuse, they'd find another way. But this was the best way. He nodded his acquiescence, picked up his jacket, and left without a word.

* * *

"Where is my tape with the Manchester game on it? I set the VCR last night to record it off satellite and I'd like to watch it." Giles picked his way through his own living room, stepping over the newspaper Spike had left on the floor, the clothes Spike had left on the floor, and even the half-finished cup of pig's blood Spike had left on the floor.

"Oh, that," Spike said distractedly, his eyes glued to the TV screen. "It's this one."

"But that isn't football," Giles replied. "That's … that's … a soap opera," he finally managed to spit out.

"Yeah. I didn't want to miss _Passions_, so I taped over the game." Spike replied.

"You what?"

"I taped over it. I mean, I watched it first, then I taped over it." Spike held up a hand to cut off Giles swallowed screech. "Now would you mind being quiet? We're about to find out if Randy is the father of Melissa's baby."

"You watched it? _You_ watched it? But it was mine, and I didn't get to watch it!" Giles was nearly purple with rage.

"Oh," said Spike. "Well Manchester won 2-1 in the last minute with an absolutely incredible header. You really should've seen it." Spike smiled at Giles obvious anger. While he couldn't hurt humans physically anymore because of the chip in his brain, he could drive them absolutely mad. Hurting people emotionally was one of the few joys left him after the government sponsored Initiative had neutered him. "While you're up," he continued, mindless of Giles fury, "could you grab me a beer?"

Giles left the room.

He realized that he'd been doing that quite a bit over the last week. More so since he couldn't even go to his own store until after the Amulet was cast. Looking at his watch, he realized that Sundown was only an hour away. They would begin the casting then. It would be done at midnight. Tomorrow, he could return to his shop and leave Spike to his own company.

Not that sharing an apartment with Spike was bad. Not when you consider many of his other encounters with the demon. Before getting the chip, Spike and his vampire love Druscilla had been as evil as they came. Giles had been captured and tortured. Certainly this was better than that. Upon reflection, Giles realized that it really wasn't.

The chip hadn't made Spike any less evil; it simply prevented him from physically harming humans. That meant that Spike had to find other ways to exercise his own twisted brand of horror. The baiting and insensitivity he was showing as Giles' guest was one aspect of that. Spike's willingness to fight and kill other demons was another.

But to simply call Spike evil didn't quite capture the whole truth. There was a certain aspect about him where Buffy was involved. He hated her, and yet was obsessed by her. Giles knew that was a dangerous mix. But as long as Spike had the chip, he was an excellent, though somewhat unwilling, ally.

Giles checked his watch again. Fifty-five minutes to go. There wasn't much left for him to do except wait; and try not to stake Spike.

* * *

Anya closed and locked the door of the Magic Box. The last of the customers had left, and it was getting close to sundown. Madame LaFusce, Willow, and Tara were set up in the back room. Anya was supposed to guard the door against interruptions. She was curious about the spell; if she could see it done, she might be able to reclaim her own necklace of power – the necklace that made her into a demon and gave her the power to grant wishes. Not that she would do it; Xander loved her, and she was getting used to living as a mortal. There were even some parts of it that she enjoyed. Still, the knowing would be good.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Tara came out of the back room to rummage through some incense. Selecting the ones she needed, she hurried back through the rear door. Anya wandered over to examine the shelf Tara had been at, making a quick mental calculation and determining that she needed to add an addition $1.37 to their tab. She might not be able to participate in the magic, but Anya contented herself with the dark art of retail management.

* * *

In the back room, Willow finished chalking out the outline of the amulet on the floor. It was quite large – nearly three feet across. Madame LaFusce had explained that they would lay out the components in the exact form of the amulet on the floor. The large scale was required to get the detail right. Then, when they invoked the spell, the components would merge and solidify, condensing themselves into the actual amulet on a much smaller scale.

When she had completed the task to the Frenchwoman's exacting standards, each letter properly formed, each line connecting the various components exactly, she and Tara began laying out the elements. The symbols were overlaid with crushed crystals of various kinds – one type per character. The connecting lines sprinkled with pollen granules of various plants. Larger stones placed within specific circles. Finally, a mix of incense was used to form the additional outline.

When all the components were in place, the outer circle was ringed with candles. Willow and Tara sat within the candle ring, facing one another across the large formation of the amulet. With sonorous voices, the two began the first incantation. Madame LaFusce had drilled them mercilessly on proper pronunciation and timing over the last two days. However, the effect was impressive. With each recitation of the phrase, they each pointed at a candle and it lit. Again and again they repeated the chant, forming a protective circle around them and concentrating their powers within it.

When the warding spell was concluded, the air fairly crackled with power. Willow and Tara were obscured within the circle, as if a veil of fog sat between them and any outside observer. As they began the second chant, a light formed over the amulet construction. Locking their gazes, they continued repeating the chant. The light grew brighter and brighter, steadily increasing in intensity. There began a low sound within the circle, like a heartbeat. As it grew in volume, the light began to pulse in time with it. Lost in the chant, Willow and Tara soon lost track of time.

Eventually, the pulsing and light subsided, collapsing onto the amulet construction. Slowly, the two witches ceased chanting. Then, leaning across the floor, they gripped one hand, Tara's left in Willow's right, and placed the other palm down over the now glowing form of the amulet. They began the third and final chant:

"_Elements and power, knowledge and proof_

_Collapse these offerings in due form_

_To help the Slayer see the truth_

_Create the amulet to be worn_"

Over and over they chanted, growing in intensity with each iteration. Suddenly, the light below their hands flashed outward, and they lost consciousness. When they awoke, a small amulet lay between them, shining gold in the candlelight. They looked about, disoriented, but saw Madame LaFusce standing there. She was smiling. Madame LaFusce was actually smiling!

"There is hope for you witches yet," she said simply. Tara and Willow, though, flushed at the praise. More than impressing the old witch, they had succeeded in creating the amulet that Buffy could use to discover the enemy.

They took down the wards, and began picking up the materials that weren't consumed in the spell. Madame LaFusce picked up the amulet and examined it closely. She smiled again, pleased with the work. Very pleased.

* * *

It was near midnight when Giles' phone rang. He was still awake, arguing with Spike about Gilbert and Sullivan while playing cards. "While you may have been at the actual premier of the musical, _William_, that doesn't mean that you could tell a Major General from a tavern wench if your life depended on it."

"How many bleedin' times do I have to tell you to call me _Spike_?" the vampire responded heatedly. No matter how many years passed, he still was incensed whenever anyone used his proper name. "Gimme three," he added, tossing three cards into the discard pile.

The phone call provided the necessary interruption to allow the two men to cool. "Saved by the bell," Giles muttered. Then, picking up the receiver, said, "Hello. Oh, Willow. Yes, tell me. Good. Good. Oh excellent. Very good then, we'll see how to put it to use in the morning." He got up and walked a ways from Spike. "What can you tell me about the ritual?" he asked. "Well, I know it's supposed to be a secret. Yes, I know what Madame LaFusce thinks of me. Okay, fine. We'll talk about it in the morning." He hung up the phone forcefully.

"That French one has them two witches too scared to tell you anything, right?" Spike said nonchalantly. "Can't say as I blame them."

"Neither can I," Giles answered distractedly. "I can only hope that things will be better in the morning."

* * *

The next morning was Saturday, so everyone was able to come to the Magic Box early. They all waited anxiously for the unveiling of the amulet. When Madame LaFusce presented it to Buffy, everyone held their breath. Buffy put it around her neck and looked about. All eyes were fastened to her expectantly. For long moments, the gang waited. Finally, she said, "Sorry. No difference." A collective gasp sounded in the room. "Maybe we need to check the batteries."

Madame LaFusce rolled her eyes. "What did you expect, you silly chit?"

"Um, I don't know. Lights or something," Buffy replied.

"This amulet reveals hidden demons. There are none of those here," the old witch said caustically.

"What about Spike?" Buffy asked.

"He is known, not hidden. The amulet will show you nothing of him you do not already know," Madame LaFusce said quite dismissively. "No, we must look at an image of your suspect." Madame LaFusce took out a photograph of a man in a suit. "Tell me what you see," she asked, placing the picture before Buffy.

"That's not Congressman Greene," Buffy said, glancing at it.

"I did not ask you who it was and wasn't," the old woman said sharply. "I told you to tell me what you see!"

Buffy looked down at the portrait for long moments. Suddenly, her eyes widened. "Hey, it's changing. It's a demon." She looked up expectantly.

"Tell me more," Madame LaFusce ordered. "Details."

Buffy looked back down. "Well, he has green skin. It's kinda lumpy. No, make that spikey. He has spikes, all over. And gills, which are kinda pink."

Madame LaFusce nodded. "Good," she said. "Tell me about this man," she ordered, producing another photograph.

Buffy looked at it for a long time. Finally she said, "Nothing. Just what we see here."

Madame LaFusce nodded again. "These are the congressman's assistants. We've known about them for a while now. We know that the one on the left is a demon, and the one on the right is a human. You have correctly identified them, which means that the amulet is working as designed." Madame LaFusce looked around the table for long moments, to make sure no one was challenging her claims. "Now," she said, and produced the photograph of Congressman Greene.

Buffy stared at it for a long moment. Twice she closed her eyes and breathed slow steadying breaths. Finally, she looked up from the picture. "Demon," she said.

"Describe him," LaFusce ordered.

"Grey skin, almost like stone. Two large horns curving over the skull. Fangs. Almost like a wicked goat-guy." Buffy was visibly shaken. "His eyes – they glow. It's … evil. It's like nothing I've ever seen, and believe me, I've seen a lot. It's like he can see me, like he's watching me. And it's … it's totally creeping me out, and I don't creep!"

Madame LaFusce nodded during the whole description. When Buffy was finished, the old woman looked up at Giles. "Either you're very lucky, or you're not quite the fool I believed. This is a jornikof demon. There is no doubt. Even if she had known the description before, the fear they inspire cannot be fabricated."

"Well, it seems we now know what we need to," Giles said thoughtfully. "But what do we do about it?"

"Go after it," Buffy said resolutely. "And I'm not waiting for it to come to Sunnydale." 

Everyone around the table soaked in the proclamation soberly. Except Madame LaFusce, who smiled. "Excellent choice," she said.

* * *

In a remote corner of England, an old man sat at a small writing desk. The quill pen wrote of its own accord, scribbling on the paper and occasionally returning to the well for ink. He waited patiently. The other man in the room was less patient. He paced back and forth. The old man smiled, his skin seeming to stretch beyond its limits in the act.

His skin was like parchment, having a somewhat transparent brownish hue that showed the veins below like a fine tracery of some odd language. He was bald, thin, and prone to stooping. The overall effect was Mediterranean.  His clothes were eighteenth century, dominated by a golden silk waistcoat and stiffly tied cravat. His smile showed a complete if somewhat yellowed set of teeth. The eyes, though, were what stopped most people. The eyes were bright and eager; they were also the windows to the very deep well of his very old and very troubled soul.

The quill set itself down carefully and he picked up the paper, reading it eagerly. "The amulet works," he told the other man in the room. "The demon has been identified, and soon will be dead."

"All is as you said it would be," the other man replied.

"Exactly as I said," the old man replied with a harsh, mirthless laugh.

  



	15. Chapter 14 Target: Spike

**  
** Chapter 14 

Target: Spike

Sunnydale – May 21st 

The Seventh Speaker put down the quill and dispersed the spell that carried its motions across the ocean to the Creator of the Circle. She rubbed her cramped hands – writing with the magic always aggravated her arthritis. Slowly she inhaled and exhaled to calm herself. Not all she had written to the Creator was true. The fact that Spike was still alive was a deliberate omission. If the Creator knew that she had failed in that task, she would have been dead already. The magic that transmitted the motions of her quill to his could be used for more _intense_ transmissions – the kind that killed instantly.

She turned towards the man waiting for her to finish. He was tall, athletic, and wore his blonde hair in a military cut. His steel blue eyes were razor sharp as he looked her over. He wore black – black boots, black pants, and a black turtle-neck sweater. What would be considered fashionable in any Paul Mitchell salon had quite a different effect on him. Every inch of his taut frame screamed SAS Commando – mainly because that's exactly what he was. 

Major Tom Sheffield had served faithfully in the service for twenty years, and he was accustomed to dangerous missions with limited information. However, even he was having difficulty with this assignment. Covert operations inside 'friendly nations' were not unheard of, but usually those involved extremist groups. Not once had a mission location ever resembled the suburban town of Sunnydale, or had the sphere of operation involved a bunch of normal-seeming college students. He was also used to working under non-military mission specialists. Usually that involved operatives from one of the main intelligence agencies in the world; never had they resembled the old woman before him. 

At first he had read his mission brief with intense incredulity. Magic? Demons? Who'd ever heard of such things? His first thought was that it was a joke; his second that it was a test. But then he had seen what this woman could do, and he'd seen the creatures that hunted the night in Sunnydale. He also reviewed what little records were left from the Initiative, which had operated in this town. In short order, he'd come to accept that he had a job to do here – for England, and for humanity. And, like it or not, this woman, Madame LaFusce, was going to lead him to it, as odd as she might appear and as mysterious as she liked to act. 

The Major had traveled here with a team of seven others. They operated in several configurations, but usually in pairs. His own secondary was Captain MacKenzie. The red-haired Scott was quiet and efficient, just like himself. But the Captain was also not so quick to accept everything that was presented to him. He had too many questions to make it much further in the service; some things he just had trouble accepting. 

Madame LaFusce was one of those things. "This just dinna seem right, Major," he had said to Tom their third night in Sunnydale, his strong brogue coming through in the hushed whisper. "I know the orders came from command – I just canna believe that this is what the service intended us for."

"You of all people should be used to this," Sheffield replied. "You're the one who's the expert on the mumbo jumbo, aren't you?"

"Aye. And that's exactly why I don't like this. I've met people like Madame LaFusce before. There's no trusting them. Let's just check a wee bit higher up the command chain – that's all I'm saying."

The Major would have none of it, though. The orders were straightforward enough, and they had come directly from Sir Radcliffe. Their job wasn't to question them – their job was to do as the orders said. They had presented themselves to Madame LaFusce as directed, and from there been briefed on the situation. An American Congressman was, in fact, a demon that had escaped the attention of American authorities. The creature would be dealt with by the Slayer – a role the major did not quite understand yet. They were to render all aid and assistance to the Slayer as directed by Madame LaFusce. In the time they had been in Sunnydale, all she had directed them to do was to watch and wait, taking note of all they observed. But now she seemed distressed – something was going on.

"Major, what is the status of your men?" Madame LaFuse asked suddenly, breaking the Major from his stream of thoughts.

"At the ready, Ma'am," he replied automatically.

"When can they be ready for a small operation?" she asked quizzically.

"What type of operation, Ma'am?" he replied. _Clarification before Commitment_.

"Seek and destroy. There is a vampire on the loose that needs to be removed. I know exactly where he is; I need your men to remove him from the situation." Her voice cracked at the end, as the strain of the situation seemed to be getting to her.

"One hour, Ma'am," Sheffield replied after a quick mental calculation. When she didn't respond to that, he asked, "Shall I give the order?"

Her mind seemed to contemplate the question for a long time. Finally, she nodded. "Yes, Major. Give the order."

He removed the two-way radio from his hip and pressed the talk button. "Mac? Come in, Mac."

A brief crackle of static was followed by the reply. "Mac here. Go ahead, Sir."

"Mac," the Major began, then paused. He was watching the old woman's anticipation, and it sent a chill down his spine. "Mac, we need to go on a fishing trip in one hour. Get'em prepped."

"Roger that," the two-way responded. "What kind of hooks to pack?"

"Stakes," the Major responded immediately. "Wooden ones."

* * *

Fifty-five minutes later, the team was assembled around the briefing table. They were using the kitchen of the rental house in the older section of town, so space was limited. But the men were used to even more cramped quarters without the benefits of such luxuries as a roof or a floor. This was the Ritz Carlton by comparison.

The eight men were dressed in black commando gear, including body armor and ski masks. They each carried a backpack containing gear of all descriptions. More importantly, though, was the weapon selection. Six of the men carried what looked to be shotguns, but which threw wooden stakes at high velocity and packed a clip of eight of them. Two of them carried sub-machine guns. All of them also packed multiple pistols, at least one of which was outfitted with a silencer.

"Now then, gents," Mac began, "the target's name is Spike. He's easy enough to ID – all black outfit, leather coat - and, oh yeah, he comes up negative across the board on the life-signs scanners. The lad's a vampire now, but in two hours he's gonna be just so much dust. These new guns'll be a bit of a challenge until you get used to'em; so just concentrate on herding the laddie into wee corner and we'll pick'em off when we've got ourselves a clean shot. Clear?" The gathered men nodded in acknowledgment. "Okay. Major?"

Sheffield leaned forward onto the table, pointing at the blueprints. "We'll be going in three-two-three. Murphy, Johnson, and Baker will act as perimeter. You'll be Charlie team. I'll take Brody and Cook with me in the front as Alpha team. Mac and Jessup will come in the rear. They're Bravo team. It's a simple two bedroom flat belonging to one Rupert Giles. Mr. Giles is not a target, but if he gets in the way of a clean shot at the vamp we can consider him an acceptable casualty. But I'd rather neither he nor anyone else sees us pay this little visit, so let's make this quick, clean and simple. Got it?" A chorus of grunts replied in the affirmative. "All right, then, let's get a move on. Dismissed."

* * *

Spike looked up from the television as Giles came through the room, shrugging on his coat. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"Out," was all Giles replied.

"You can't go out and leave me here all alone," Spike squeaked. Then, with some effort, reassumed his mask of bravado, "I mean, not that I'm scared or nothin', but don't you think you should hang around here a bit. There's a bit of football on later, if you'd care to watch. You can make us up some tea and I'll … well, I'll watch you do it."

"What's gotten into you all of a sudden, Spike?" Giles asked perplexed. "Surely you can't be afraid of this jornikof demon. He thinks you're dead. Besides, he's not anywhere near Sunnydale right now." Spike did not appeal mollified. "Besides, I need to go over to Xander and Anya's. We're having a strategy session, and no, you can't come."

"Why not?" Spike asked in an injured tone.

"Because you're more important to us alive," Giles replied calmly.

"So, what's that got to do wit – "

"And if I don't get an hour away from your annoying presence," Giles interrupted, "I'm going to go ahead and stake you myself. Now count your blessings and for God's sake, try to leave me some of the peanut butter."

"If you'd buy an extra jar like you said you would," Spike began, but Giles held up a hand in warning. Spike broke off, then started again, "I'll be quiet, I promise – "

"Spike," said Giles, drawing out the name with menace. "Don't," was all he said, and then marched out the door.

"Not bloody polite if you ask me," Spike said. "And I'll eat all the damn peanut butter I want," he yelled at the closed door, a futile yet still defiant gesture.

* * *

Outside, Giles climbed in his car and drove off, unknowingly under the close observation of Captain MacKenzie. The soldier next to him held a small parabolic dish towards the back window of Giles' apartment. MacKenzie spoke into his two-way with a chuckle, "Did you catch that, Sir? Seems as we could just lock the door and let poor Mr. Giles take care of the laddie for us."

"Keep the channel clear," came the Major's reply. "Let's stick to the plan. We are a go in ten."

* * *

Spike scraped the butter knife around the sides of the nearly empty peanut butter jar in futility. "All right then," he muttered under his breath. "I wonder if he's got some tucked away in the pantry." He walked over and opened a closet door where some spare foodstuffs were kept. That's when the power went out. "Bollocks," he said as he stuffed himself in by the hot water heater looking for the fuse box. The door closed all but a crack.

A moment later, a flash blew the front door open and three armed commandos came through in expert formation. Spike peaked through the crack to see them survey the room. They wore night vision gear and had their guns up to their shoulders. They moved carefully through the apartment. The sound of breaking glass in the back gave testimony to the arrival of others.

If they were human – and they certainly smelled human – Spike couldn't fight them due to the chip in his head. However, he wasn't about to let them simply hunt him down and kill him. On the other hand, they didn't look that dangerous; he'd taken more than one shotgun blast in his un-life. Just as long as they didn't try to stake him, he'd be fine.

One of the men moved close to the closet. They obviously weren't expecting him to be in it. And why should they? Taking a deep breath, he shoved the door open, stepped up, grabbed the soldier and gave him a vicious spin. The shock of pain Spike felt was brief and mild, since he hadn't actually hit the man. The other two turned, and Spike shifted into 'vamp face' to scare them, stepping so as to keep the now dizzy soldier between himself and the others. One of the others pulled the trigger on the shotgun, and Spike was shocked to see the dizzy soldier take a wooden stake in the chest – right where Spike had been standing a fraction of a second earlier.

The first thought Spike had was, "That was a close one." The second thought – the one that came out of his mouth – was, "Bloody Hell!" Time seemed to slow. The first soldier was falling with the impact of the stake, although his body armor had protected him from permanent damage. Spike's rapidly spinning brain grasped just what those 'shotguns' could do, and realized his peril. The third soldier was bringing up a machine gun while the other was pumping the reload action. 

Spike turned, moving with agonizing slowness in his own perception. In truth, though, his vampire speed and reflexes far exceeded those of his human hunters. He was off and moving when the first rounds of the automatic weapon began to claw at the walls of Giles' flat. He dodged another stake, mostly by instinct, and grabbed his coat off the hook as he smoothly exited the door. Then he was off and running.

"Charlie team, this is Bravo leader," Mac's voice broke over the radio. "Alpha lead is down and the target is heading for the perimeter. I repeat, the Major is down. Bravo team is in pursuit – cut the undead bastard off!" Mac and Jessup raced out of the apartment in pursuit of Spike while the rest of Alpha team picked up the Major and carried him to the extraction point.

Spike was moving quickly, dodging down alleys as best he could. He knew that he had only a few moments head start. He had sensed the perimeter team upon coming out of the apartment, and managed to angle between two of them with a burst of vampire speed. They were in close pursuit, as were two others. He had to find a way out. He skidded around a corner and raced down another alley. He was just squeezing around some barrels when he heard a voice behind him.

"Hey Spike, I thought I told you not to come down here," the voice said. Spike turned around to see the tall leader of a small vampire gang coming up behind him. "Not unless you've got what you owe me, that is." The other vampires nodded in agreement, ready to join what was clearly a lopsided battle.

It took a moment for Spike to shift mental gears to the situation. Here he was, running for his life from a small battalion of vampire-hunting soldiers, and who should he run into but someone he owed money to. Of course, since that described half the demon population of Sunnydale, he shouldn't have been surprised. He brain ran furiously through the possibilities. "What do I owe you again?" he asked, in large part to buy time but in larger part because he honestly couldn't remember.

"One-fifty. Plus ten pints," the gang leader replied menacingly.

"Is that all?" Spike replied, stunned. Shrugging, he said, "Well, you got me. Tell you what, Marvin, isn't it? Well Marvin, this coat's worth double that. How about I give it to you and we'll call it even?" He slipped off his coat and tossed it to the gang leader.

 Marvin was awed by his good fortune. He'd always thought that Spike's coat added a sense of menace to him – a menace that he could inherit if he only had a coat like that. And now, he had it – the key to making himself into more than just a vampire. With this, he could be a _cool_ vampire.

"Go ahead, try it on," Spike said encouragingly. Marvin swung the coat on and smiled at the others in his small gang. "Got to run now," said Spike. He thrust himself through the barrels and around the corner just as the commandos burst into the other end of the alley.

"We have target lock," said Mac as Marvin, wearing Spike's full leather coat swung around to face the newcomers. In seconds, the entire gang was small piles of dust. The coat itself survived as mute testament to the slaughter, itself shot through with a wooden stake and pinned to one of the barrels at the end of the alley.

All would know what had happened to Spike.

  



	16. Chapter 15 The Plan

**  
** Chapter 15 

The Plan

Sunnydale – May 21st 

"What happened to Spike," someone asked at the meeting of the Scooby gang at Anya and Xander's apartment.

"Not that anyone is actually interested," mumbled Xander.

"I left him at home," Giles replied. "He's watching football and making a mess of the place, I'm sure."

"I thought it was still baseball season," said Buffy quizzically.

"Sorry," said Giles, seeing the confused Americans in his mist. "What we call football in England you call Soccer."

"So what do you call what we call football?" Buffy asked.

"Rugby," Giles replied straight-faced.

"Weird," she replied.

"I'm not sure Rugby can be considered a real sport," Xander began like he was launching into a stand-up routine. "I mean, they use terms like 'scrum.' What sport uses a term like scrum?"

"They're not listening, dear," Anya said absently as she carried in a mammoth platter of snacks. "Since this is the first official meeting of the team here at our apartment, I wanted to make sure everyone was taken care of. I take being a hostess very seriously, you know."

Everyone eyed the platter of food incredulously. There was enough to feed them for ten such meetings, assuming that they hadn't already eaten dinner (which, of course, they had). Tara, not one to hurt anyone's feelings, gamely picked up a small plate and began placing snack chips on it. "It looks wonderful," she said, and then gave everyone else 'the eye.'

"Oh," said Buffy, startled into action. "Absolutely. We gotta keep our strength up, what with fighting demons and all." Buffy grabbed several finger sandwiches and placed the plate between her and Giles. She elbowed Giles as she took one up and began to eat it. Giles did the same.

Xander reached for a sandwich, but Anya promptly slapped his wrist. "Those are for the guests," she said primly. Then she began pouring tea for everyone. "Would anyone care for some honey for their tea?"

"Please," said Giles.

"Xander, go grab the honey," she said immediately. Xander dutifully rose and went to the kitchen and began looking in the cupboards. "It's not there, sweetie," she called out to him. "Remember, you left it on the nightstand in the bedroom."

"Yeah," Xander said, turning pink. "For our evening cup of tea," he explained exaggeratedly.

"We don't drink tea at night," Anya corrected him. "Remember, you said it was for 'the land of milk and honey.'" She pointed at her chest meaningfully.

"T-M-I!" Buffy shouted, holding up a hand. _Too Much Information._

"I'll just take some sugar," replied Giles demurely. "Assuming _that's_ in the kitchen."

"Where else would it be?" Anya asked in mild bewilderment.

At the other end of the table, Willow was smiling mischievously at Tara. "Honey, huh?" was all she said, but it was enough to turn Tara bright red.

"Can we just get to the topic at hand here?" asked Buffy, trying to pull the meeting back to business while she still had some semblance of a chance to do so. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth with her friends lately. They seemed so caught up in their own personal lives. Granted, they were young and in love; they were happily coupled, which is a lot more than Buffy could ever hope for. Her relationships simply didn't work out.

First there'd been Angel, the vampire with a soul. Then there'd been Riley, the commando demon killer. Both of those had ended badly. Angel was living in L.A. now, and their last meeting had ended badly. He had basically thrown her out of the city in a fight over Faith, the other slayer. Riley had left her, too. Their last meeting hadn't been much better. However, instead of throwing her out of Sunnydale, Riley had left the country with another commando team to go hunt demons freelance.

In between there'd been a number of dates, each one worst than the last. She'd lost track of how many of her boyfriends she'd had to rescue – and at least one whom she'd had to kill after he willingly gave himself over to Spike to be turned into a vampire. He'd been suffering from a brain tumor and had hoped to forestall death by becoming one of the undead. Buffy liked to think that the tumor was the reason he'd made such a bad choice – that it had affected his faculties. That's why he had surrendered Buffy to the vampires. But deep down she thought that maybe it was her; maybe she generated that kind of spite in men.

Seeing her friends so happy was good … and painful. She wanted to be like them, part of their lives. But more and more it became clear that she was different; she was an outsider. When it came right down to it, Buffy alone was the Slayer. She did the hunting and the killing alone. Her friends couldn't be a part of that.

With the possible exception of Spike. Spike was a killer, in many ways like her. She did what she did out of duty; Spike did it out of instinct. In many ways, Buffy was simply following her instincts as well. The more she looked at the situation, the more she realized how much alike they were. 

And that's why Spike wasn't here.

She'd ask Giles to leave him tucked away safely. "Let's not expose him any more than we have to," she'd said. "Besides, I don't want to invite him into Xander's place." It was a good excuse. That's why she had chosen Xander and Anya's apartment for the meeting, because it was a good reason to not have Spike here. But the real issue was that she didn't want Spike around cluttering her thinking. She needed to focus on the task at hand – finding and killing the jornikof demon. 

The fact that the demon was after Spike complicated things. She couldn't hunt and kill it and protect Spike at the same time. She needed to leave him tucked away in his little hidey-hole until she could eliminate the threat. If Spike was here, he'd insist on coming with her. She couldn't fight that fight right now. So, she instead left him out of the discussion.

She needed to focus, because for the first time in a long time she was scared. This was a demon that they knew nothing about. It walked about as a human, and if not for the amulet she'd never know it until it killed her. She was starting to look at everyone with suspicion. People on the street, even her friends. What if a demon had infiltrated one of them? What if she couldn't trust anyone?

Buffy suddenly looked around. She wasn't sure how long she had been preoccupied with her own thoughts, but everyone at the table was waiting for her to begin. They were staring at her; they knew something was wrong.

"Buff, you okay?" Willow queried.

"Yeah, no big," Buffy replied. "Let's get down to business." The Slayer took a deep breath and focused back on the problem, turning her attention away from her own fear. She had to break up the problem into simpler steps. "The way I see it, we don't know nearly enough. We need more information."

"We've gone through all the books," Xander replied. 

"And searched all the databases," Willow supplied.

"I've sent inquiries discretely to some other associates, but they don't know anything," Giles said. "I'm not sure how else to get more information," he concluded. Everyone around the table nodded. The mode had quickly grown somber.

"We just don't know what to do," said Xander finally. His voice was edged with desperation.

"Have some brie," Anya said, smearing the cheese on a cracker and handing it him. "Eating always helps you think," she added, smiling confidently.

Xander nibbled on the cracker. "Why do they call it 'brie', anyway? You'd think they could've come up with something a little more interesting."

"Perhaps you should go there and help them out," Giles huffed, exasperatedly.

"Wait a minute," Anya said, "that's it. See honey, I knew eating would help. Have some more."

"What's it?" Buffy asked, trying not to lose her temper. "You think we should go to a cheese factory in France?"

"No, I think you should go to San Francisco," Anya replied as if it should be obvious to everyone.

"Sweetie, you're going to have to elaborate a little," Xander said encouragingly. "Or one of us might be squashed like a bug," he added, seeing the frustration on Buffy's face.

"Congressman Green - he's on a tour right now, right?" Anya began.

"Right," everyone agreed.

"Which means he's not at his office right now," Anya continued.

"And his office is in San Francisco," Willow supplied.

"And now would be a perfect time to go there and see what we can find out about him," Buffy finished, putting the pieces together.

"A reconnaissance mission," Giles said, nodding approvingly. "Excellent. We may well find out quite a bit about this creature from surveying his surroundings."

"Let me check his schedule," said Willow, pulling out her laptop from her bag. "It's published on his web site, so this should only take a few minutes."

"What about Madame LaFusce? Do you think we should tell her what we're doing?" Tara asked.

"No," Buffy and Giles said together.

"I'm thinking we should try to keep some of our cards closer to our chest, as it were," Giles said. Although, truth be told, everyone pretty much knew he was bitter at the way he'd been treated by her.

"And I want this on a need to know basis," Buffy added. "Our enemy knows too much about us already. From this point forward, we're going to have to keep this to ourselves." Buffy looked around the table making sure everyone understood. "That means not telling anyone, including Madame LaFusce. And," she paused for emphasis, "especially not Spike."

"Um," said Willow nervously, looking up from her laptop. "That may not be so much of a problem as one might think." She glanced around, clearly afraid. "This just in off the police wire. 'Shots fired at the Brentwood apartment complex, number 5b,'"

"That's my apartment!" Giles said, half getting out of his chair.

" 'Witnesses reported several heavily armed figures chasing after a Caucasian male in a black leather trench coat, believed to have been found in an alley six blocks away.' The trench coat, not the Caucasian male." Willow paused. "There's a picture," she said meekly, turning the laptop around. 

On the screen was an image of a trench coat, very much like Spike's, pinned to a barrel by a wooden stake.

Buffy was out the door before anyone else could react.

  



	17. Chapter 16 Tensions

**  
** Chapter 16 

Tensions

Sunnydale – May 21st 

Major Sheffield refused the healing spell that Madame LaFusce offered him. "It's only bruises," he'd said. The entire left side of his chest was black and blue from the impact of the stake. Had he not been wearing the body armor, he would have been impaled on the stick. While he wouldn't have turned to dust like a vampire, he would've been just as dead.

He sat on the kitchen table under the watchful eye of Captain Mac while Baker, who doubled as the team medic, wrapped bandages around his rib cage. They sat silently, except for the occasional query from the medic about the pain or the tautness of the bandages. When he finished tying off the wrap, the medic handed the Major two ibuprofen pills and stood watchful until the patient had taken them. He then carefully packed away his med kit and left the two officers alone.

Sheffield gingerly put his turtleneck back on and then smoothed out his hair. He took an experimental breath or two. Finally, he looked over at the expectant Captain. "Kills?" he asked simply.

"Four, including the target," Mac supplied. "All vampires."

"Cook?" the Major asked.

"I've got him cleaning all the weapons. Twice." Mac was matter-of-fact about the punishment. It was a mild one, and the Major cocked an eyebrow at it. "Did you see the way that thing moved?" Mac supplied by way of explanation. "We're not trained for this. We've never seen an enemy like it. He's bloody fast – a fricking blur. Had he not gotten pinned up against the end of that alleyway, we'd not have had a chance in Hell. Cook was lucky he didn't kill you, but it was not really his fault." Mac stared at the Major. "What the hell are we doing here?"

"Following orders," the Major replied. "Completing our mission." He got up to leave the kitchen.

Mac grabbed the Major's arm. "Nobody goes on a mission like this. We've had no briefing on the creatures. We're not prepared to fight them. We don't understand the mission parameters, and we don't like it one bit." He paused, searching the Major's eyes for some sign of relenting. "I've been dealing with this sort of thing for a long time, and I'm a wee bit over my head already. The others have never seen anything like it. The men deserve better, do they not?"

Sheffield's eyes hardened in response. "Take your hand away, Captain, or I'll have you up on charges." Mac removed his hand from his commander's arm. Sheffield simply turned and walked out the door.

Mac left the kitchen and sought out Johnson. Looking carefully about, he made sure no one else was around. "Johnson, I need a wee favor."

Johnson nodded, smiling. "Sure Mac, anything."

"You still have a cousin in command, right? Well, I need to know where our orders came from. You know, who issued them." Mac looked about again.

"She doesn't have that kind of clearance, Mac," Johnson said. "She doesn't even know our unit exists. She thinks I'm standing guard at some national memorial." Mac shook his head. "Why not just ask the Major?" Johnson asked.

Mac's eyes bored into Johnson. "Whatever you do, lad, that's the one thing you canna do. The Major is not to hear a whisper of this, you understand? Now do what you can, but not a word of it to anyone else. Clear?" He held the gaze until Johnson nodded.

"Mac, what's this all about?" he asked quietly. It was clear that he was disturbed by the night's events.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," Mac replied before walking off.

* * *

Buffy stood behind the police line gazing down the alley. At the end, hung up like so much laundry, was Spike's jacket. Buffy recognized it instantly. The missing button on the left cuff; the scuff mark on the shoulder; the torn spot in the lining. It was Spike's all right – there was no question about that. It was pinned to the barrels by a huge wooden stake that was embedded at least three inches into the barrel. It punctured the jacket exactly heart high.

Giles' hand rested on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Somehow she'd been able to hold back the tears until then. But the gentle reassurance of her mentor let the flood gates open. Tears flowed freely down her face at that.

It was odd – how much they all disliked Spike. Yet here they were, upset over his death. In truth, a large portion of that was what it meant for them. Their enemy was succeeding. Their enemy was getting to them, piece by piece. Like a lopsided chess game, they were being steadily outmaneuvered. They were becoming trapped.

But there was something else there, as well. Spike was one of them, now. For good or for bad, he was a member of the gang. _Was_ being the operative word. They had lost one of their own.

Spike wasn't the first. Giles had suffered that hurt when he'd lost Jenny Calendar to Angelus – the evil form of the vampire Angel. That had been nearly more than they could bear. Spike was only the second, though. There would, undoubtedly, be more through the years. Buffy prayed she never got used to the idea.

"How's your place?" she asked quietly, not taking her eyes off the tableau before her.

"Not bad, actually. The living room had the most damage." Giles replied. "The police think it was a drug related break-in." He paused, gripping Buffy's shoulder. "Buffy, they had automatic weapons. Not even a Slayer can dodge that kind of bullet spray." He paused again, waiting for his words to register.

"I'll be careful," she said finally.

"I think we should reconsider this," Giles began, but Buffy's shaking head stopped him.

"No Giles," she said, and then finally turned her attention to him. "We have to take the fight to them. No more waiting around. We have to change the momentum of this thing."

"I agree," he said, shaking his head. "Unfortunately," he added. "I just wish there was another way." Buffy embraced him, and he held her for a long time.

A clearing throat brought them back, and they turned to see Xander parked next to them. His truck was running, and Buffy noticed a pair of duffle bags in the back. He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Willow says we're scrunched for time. If we're going to do this, we better get going now."

Buffy looked up at Giles. "You'll take care of Mom and Dawn? Since the surgery, Mom has been … well, just keep an eye on them, okay?"

"I'll take care of them, I promise," he replied. "You take care of yourself."

"I will," Buffy replied. She hopped into the truck. "How far?"

"We'll hit San Francisco by morning," Xander replied. "We'll catch some shut eye, case the place, and then hit it tomorrow night. Then we'll need to get back here if we're going to have any hope of getting set-up to take on the congressman when he arrives."

"Got it," she said. She absently wiped the last few tears from her eyes. "Let's go." Xander's truck roared off into the night.

* * *

Across the ocean, the Creator of the Circle sipped tea from a china cup. His eyes glanced down to the parchment at his elbow. It was the second status report of the day, and he was very pleased with its contents. He'd have to discipline the Seventh Speaker for failing to kill the vampire the first time, but it was done now. She had been wise to wait until it had been accomplished to tell him; wiser still that she had managed it so quickly.

He had grown suspicious when she did not explicitly state in her earlier report that the objective had been reached. But he was one to give certain latitudes to those who had proven themselves effective in his pursuits. Had she not provided confirmation of the vampire's death tomorrow, he would've been forced to probe on his own. Such questioning can be painful for the person being questioned. He found himself mildly disappointed that the chance had been taken from him.

Shifting his eyes, he observed the man sitting across from him. The Brigadier-General was all spit, polish, and ribbons. He took his tea with an unnatural stiffness. It was clear that the man took his soldiering to heart, that he let it control every aspect of his life. Ever one for protocol, the Brigadier had left his aide standing by the door at parade rest, not even offering the man any tea.

The Creator of the Circle liked this man. He understood the role of power, and of underlings. He understood and was willing to do whatever was necessary to reach his goals. That the Brigadier's goals and the Creator's goals should be so intertwined was a stroke of good fortune. Already the association was proving most fruitful.

"The team you provided us is proving most useful," the Creator said graciously. "One of our more problematic objectives has already been achieved." He nodded and smiled pleasantly at the thought.

The Brigadier, for his part, simply snorted in acceptance of the compliment. "That's why I provided them," he said, his speech thick like a beefsteak. "There's few who can operate in hostile country the way they do. I'm sure you'll find them quite satisfactory." He nodded a quick, clipped nod for emphasis.

"Indeed," the Creator replied.

The Brigadier put his teacup down and held his hand out to the side. His aide instantly snapped to and placed a black folder in the outstretched hand. The Brigadier made an elaborate show of perusing the documents, and then looked up at the Creator as if he'd gotten so involved in his task that he'd forgotten the old man was sitting there. "Now then," the Brigadier began, and then cleared his throat. "When can we expect to see the subject you promised us?"

The Creator set his teacup down and placed his chin in his fist. He made a great show of contemplating the Brigadier's question. In truth, he was calculating how much the man was worth. The Brigadier was able to field resources that the Creator of the Circle could only vaguely dream of. He was, however, utterly pretentious. The Creator had not lived fifty lifetimes to be snorted at by such a mortal as this. The Brigadier, though necessary, was an affront to the Creator's existence. _He should be bowing to me_, the Creator thought. _He should be prostrate before me, invoking me as a god. Instead, he slowly said, "A week … perhaps ten days." He shrugged exaggeratedly. "It is enough to know that she will surely be ours soon enough."_

The Brigadier snorted again. "Soon enough, eh?" He hardened his gaze at the frail looking old man before him. "Just see that you deliver, Mr. Aries. Just see that you do." He stood abruptly, a gesture that sent the aide into a blur of activity. In seconds, the file was retrieved and stowed in the briefcase, the Brigadier's overcoat put on, and his hat placed in his hand.

The Brigadier contemplated the gold braid on the cap for a long moment, and then looked over at the Creator. "I thank you for tea, Mr. Aries. I'll let myself out." Not waiting for a reply, he placed the cap on his head and exited the door, his aide scrambling to get it open in time.

A long silence hung in the room upon his leaving. The Creator took another sip of tea. Exhaling slowly, he flicked his wrist and one corner of the room began to shimmer. In a moment, his erstwhile companion – the Fourth Speaker – appeared, materializing as if from thin air.

"You heard all?" the Creator asked, knowing full well that he had.

"Yes," replied the Fourth Speaker. "He is dangerous," he said after a moment's hesitation. It was a dangerous game to venture opinions in front of the Creator.

"Not as much as he thinks he is," the Creator replied. "He will learn the truth soon enough. And then he will either be controlled … or eliminated."

"As you say, my Creator," the Fourth Speaker replied.

  



	18. Chapter 17 Infiltration

**  
** Chapter 17 

Infiltration

San Francisco – May 22nd

The next evening, Buffy and Xander contemplated the congressman's office. It was in downtown San Francisco, on one edge of an office district. Two blocks over the neighborhood declined sharply. Two blocks in the other direction the rent began to climb sharply. But the congressman located himself on the fence between them. _A political statement, I'm sure_, Xander had observed.

The building itself was an old brick thing, converted from a small factory. The first floor sported the campaign headquarters. Congress's two year terms meant that the candidate had to begin campaigning for reelection the day after being elected. It was a constant process. The second and third floors held offices for the staffers and operations here in California. There would be more staffers in Washington, D.C. to be sure, but the Congressman preferred to do as much from his home district as possible. The top floor held the offices of himself and his personal aide.

Buffy had already ID'd the aide as a demon. She and Xander had come in earlier in the day, presumably to volunteer to help out the campaign. They quickly changed their minds and asked to see the congressman about their petition. They knew full well that the congressman wasn't in, but made quite the show of it when they received the news. In an effort to calm them down, they were shown to the second floor offices. With a few more threats and histrionics, they made their way to the fourth floor where they met with the aide, a man / demon named Ray.

Buffy reacted immediately when she saw him, her breath drawing and fists clenching. But then Xander had glanced over and asked, "What?!" Taking a moment to think about it, she realized that Xander was seeing a human. It was by virtue of the amulet that she could see the demon's true form. 

"He's a demon," she whispered back.

"True," replied Xander. "But we're legitimate constituents here on legitimate business in broad daylight, so I think we might be safe." Buffy nodded in agreement. "All the same …" Xander continued in hushed tones, and then surreptitiously slipped a wooden stake to her as way of completing the sentence.

The meeting, as it turned out, was quite cordial. In fact, Ray proved to be both congenial and witty. The problem they made up (which really wasn't a stretch, by any means) was the death rate in Sunnydale. "Something must be done," Buffy stated emphatically. "You can't imagine what it's like. Everyone wonders if they'll be next. We're way off the charts with the rest of the state." Once she got started, Buffy was able to tap into a genuine passion for the topic.

"We think there needs to be a congressional investigation into why Sunnydale is such a dangerous place," Xander supplied.

Ray became uncomfortable at that point. He shifted in his seat, and then got up and stared out the window for a second. He sat back down and stared at them for a long moment. Finally, he said, "The congressman shares your concern in this matter. I'll be happy to see what he can do about this problem."

"But you're not going to do anything about it," Xander supplied. "Why am I not surprised by this?"

"No, no, no," Ray held up his hand. "Look, the congressman really does share your interests in this matter. It's just … complicated."

"Make it simple for me," Buffy said flatly.

Ray held her gaze for a long moment. Finally he got up and closed the door to the conference room. Then he sat back down and looked at each of them. "What I'm going to tell you isn't public knowledge … yet," he said. "I'm only telling you this so you can understand and give the congressman some time."

He took another deep breath, and then plunged into the topic. "There's already been a congressional investigation done about Sunnydale. The results of which are classified. What I can tell you is that the Department of Defense oversight committee conducted it, and even congressman Greene has had trouble getting access to the findings. What we do know is that as a result of that, there was a military project started, an initiative by the DoD, and it …. Well, it ended badly." The aide looked between them.

"You're saying that the initiative ended badly," Buffy asked. The demon blanched at her use of the phrase 'the initiative.' 

Ray nodded in response. "Yes, you could say that. Are you familiar with the initiative?"

"Only that you just mentioned it … just now," Xander supplied quickly, before Buffy could answer. This was dangerous ground they were treading on.

"Well, of course," said Ray, regaining his composure. "You must understand, that until that project has been debriefed and we find out what went wrong, there'll be no more congressional action. However," he held up his hand to emphasize the point, "Congressman Greene is determined to not let this be buried in red tape. He is pushing for full public disclosure. And once that happens, I think we'll be able to see more done for Sunnydale."

The meeting ended with them each receiving "Vote Greene" buttons and hearty handshakes from the aide. They went away puzzled. Buffy tried to sleep later that day, but her mind whirled with questions. Why would the jornikof demon want public disclosure of the Initiative? That would simply expose the existence of demons in the world, and put its own existence in jeopardy. What did it hope to gain? Such a plan might also expose Buffy as the Slayer. If that was the case, why would he be trying to kill her now? Her untimely death, just before the exposure of her existence, was bound to bring a lot of questions. It just didn't make sense.

So now she and Xander were getting ready to break into the office to try to get answers – to try to find something to make it make sense. They crossed the street carefully, keeping to the shadows. Buffy easily leapt up onto the first landing of the fire escape, and pushed the stairs down so that Xander could ascend. They climbed the fire escape to the roof, and crossed it to a skylight. They looked down inside each one, checking out the rooms below. Two were conference rooms; the third was Ray's office.

To their surprise and consternation, Ray was working late. And to make matters worse, his office was the route to get to the Congressman's office. They considered the options carefully.

"What we need is a diversion," Xander supplied knowingly.

"Really?" Buffy asked.

"Well, that's what they always say in the movies," Xander shrugged with a lopsided grin. "That and, 'let's get outta here.' Of course, it might be a little early for that."

Buffy nodded and walked back to the conference room Skylight. She gripped the edge and tugged. Most people would simply throw out their back, but the Slayer tore the metal of the locking mechanism and lifted the window open. Xander, taking his cue, quickly tied off a rope and dropped it into the room. Carefully and quietly, Xander and Buffy descended.

They checked the hallway, and found it to be empty. Quickly, Buffy formulated a plan. Xander was right, they needed a diversion. Buffy crept along to the end of the hall, positioning herself in a shadow by the door to Ray's office. Once there, she signaled Xander.

Xander picked up the metal garbage can from the conference room, and crossed the hall to stairwell. Taking a breath, he tossed the can high into the air and out into the stairwell. While it was still in the air, he darted back to the conference room.

When the garbage can landed, it made a horrific noise. The acoustics of the stairwell seemed to echo the noise a hundred fold. Again and again, the banging of metal on concrete echoed as the can bounded from step to step. 

Ray shot out of the office at the noise, looking disheveled. A moment was all Buffy needed to slip into his office behind him. She carefully crossed over to the door to the congressman's office and tried the handle. It was locked, but that was of little consequence. With her considerable strength, she twisted the handle and snapped it open. She slipped into the congressman's office and closed the door.

Buffy wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she thought she might know when she found it. Something like, say, a giant shrine to a number of demon gods replete with blood sacrifices was hard to miss. She only thought of that because it was exactly what she had found in the office of Sunnydale's mayor some years ago. She looked first in the cabinets around the office. One held files, another a small refrigerator featuring nothing more disturbing than diet soda. Next she checked the desk drawers, but found nothing recriminating there. She did discover what brands of toothpaste and deodorant the congressman used, but she didn't think that was indicative of anything in particular.

What she did find, though, was even more disturbing than any alter or sacrifice she might have expected to see.  She found photographs – framed, arranged, and elegantly displayed on the shelves around the room. They were snapshots of various kinds of events – weddings, birthday parties, and even a christening. The congressman appeared in all of them, and Ray with him in many of them. They featured a host of other demons and humans in them as well.

Demons _and humans. All looking quite normal, even joyous._

One featured Ray and a blonde woman at their wedding reception. Another, Ray with his offspring, she supposed you could call it a child, playing catch with Congressman Greene. Every one of them was full of smiles.

Buffy's insides churned at the thought of such massive deception. _These poor people_, she thought. _What if they knew what it was they were living with?_ Buffy stared at the wedding photo for a long time. She wondered what the woman saw, when she looked at him. What face must he put on to her – to all of them? Slowly, she took off the amulet. She took several breaths to steady herself, her eyes closed. When she opened them, she could scarcely believe her eyes. The photo was unchanged.

Setting the amulet aside, she moved from photo to photo, looking at each one. In every one of them, the demons were undisguised. And the humans around them had the same joyous smiles on their faces. Buffy could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Somewhere inside her, her entire world view was shifting.

She set the photo she was currently looking at – the one of Ray and his son – with such force that the frame splintered. She looked suddenly at the door, expecting Ray to come bursting through. But the door remained closed, and Buffy took that as a warning. "Get a hold of yourself, Summers," she said quietly. 

She went back to the filing cabinet and began searching through the folders. She began with 'S', hoping to find something under 'Summers'. What she found, instead, was the file titled 'Slayer.' She picked it up, trembling. She opened it to the first page – "Beware the Ring of Arinoth," it said. The enemy knew about the amulet. What else did he know?

At that moment, the lights flicked on and Buffy spun around, combat ready. However, it was only Xander standing in the doorway. "Xander, what are you doing here?" she asked. Xander just smiled good-naturedly, and then stumbled into the room. Behind him stood Ray, and behind him two police officers.

Ray walked in slowly. Without the Amulet, Buffy saw him simply as a human. In his hand he held the trashcan Xander had thrown down the stairs. In the light, she could see it was clearly marked, 'Conference Room 2.' _Oops_, she thought.

The two officers flowed around Ray and approached Buffy, one with his hand on his gun, the other taking out his cuffs. Buffy cold see that Xander was already handcuffed. This wasn't going well.

"Looks like she was going through the files, Mr. Thompson," one officer said.

That's when Ray saw the file she had and blanched. "Give me that," he hissed.

"Sorry, Mr. Thompson," the officer said. "We're going to have to tag this as evidence." With a quick grab he took the file from Buffy's hands and pulled out his cuffs. "Assume the position, kid," he ordered.

Buffy was calculating the odds, eyeing the gun, and trying to come up with a plan when Ray changed. Right before everyone's eyes, his human disguise fell apart as his emotions overcame him. "Noooo," he yelled and moved in. With one hand he grabbed the file folder, and with the other hit the officer in the chest sending him back into the wall. The second officer drew his gun, but Buffy saw her chance and backhanded him. Her Slayer strength knocked him cold and across the room.

Ray was already on the move and Buffy made to follow. She stopped a moment to snap the chain between Xander's cuffs, and then they were off and running after the demon. They descended down three flights of stairs and out a side door into the alley. Ray was running for his life. Though he was no track star, he knew where he was going, and was weaving through the alleys with expertise.

Xander and Buffy came around one corner into a blind alley, effectively cornering him. But he wasn't there! They looked around desperately, moving down the alley slowly. The Slayer had begun to breathe heavily with the exertion of the chase; Xander was nearly collapsed. Somewhere in this alley, Ray must be hiding. _But__ where? She thought anxiously. It was that mix of desperation, exhaustion, and disorientation that allowed them to be taken by surprise._

A movement to her left spun the Slayer around, but the next moment everything went black. It took her a moment, but she realized quickly enough that a burlap bag had been thrown over her and she was being trussed up. She fought against them fiercely, connecting at least twice with solid blows despite the confined space she had to move in. But they were strong and quick – demonically so. She was about to win her freedom when a menacing voice shouted through the fabric.

"We've got your friend. If you want him to live, quit your struggling."

Buffy had little choice. She sagged in acquiescence. A moment later, she was picked up and hauled off.

  



	19. Chapter 18 Captives

**  
** Chapter 18 

Captives

San Francisco – May 23rd 

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Water droplets echoed in Buffy's ears. Just below the audible spectrum, she could feel the vibration of heavy machinery. It had been nearly twenty minutes since she had allowed herself to be trussed up and carried off. Her captors had followed too many twists and turns for her to keep track of. She had to face the fact that she was lost. She hoped that Xander had been carried along with her, but she couldn't make any moves until she knew for sure.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The leaking water had begun to annoy her. She could just about hear a conversation going on a little ways off, but the incessant dripping prevented her from really concentrating on it. She wondered where she could be. The only thing she knew for sure about the trip was that they had gone down. Way down.

She could tell by the way they had carried her that it had been a steady progression deep under the city. Maybe twenty or so flights of stairs had been traversed to get them here. That would be quite a distance to go back up while being pursued by hordes of demons. She'd been in worse positions; she'd get through this one.

The echoes of dripping water were replaced by footsteps coming towards her. Several pairs by the sounds of it. Buffy checked the tension on her restraints. She could break them easily enough. Obviously, they didn't know who she was. The burlap bag was pulled off of her suddenly, and three pairs of eyes glared down at her.

It was dark, except for a few pools of light scattered about. Having been in complete darkness, Buffy's eyes were well adjusted to the environs. She could see the three shapes standing above her; at least one of them had a knife. She turned her head to see Xander a few yards from her in a similar position. She quickly calculated that she could take her guards, but Xander would be dead before she could reach him. She had to wait some more. 

Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Ray. He was talking excitedly with another demon, attempting to give him the file folder she had found. The other kept pushing it away, but finally hung his head in resignation. Something Ray had said seemed to end the argument. He took the folder and then headed towards the others.

She took a moment to really look at them, now. They were basically human sized, with blue-green skin and yellow eyes. Their skin was covered in small spikes. They were dressed in dirty clothes, castoffs most likely. They seemed to look among themselves quite a bit. Buffy realized it was fear. They were afraid of her, and they didn't even know she was the Slayer.

The one who had been talking to Ray approached them. "Get'em up," he said. "Looks like we're having a pair of guests for awhile." Buffy was roughly hauled to her feet.

"Hey, watch the outfit," she snapped. To her shock, one of them muttered an apology. The ropes on her feet were removed, and she was told to follow. And so they walked further into the blackness.

It was, she realized, some kind of utility. There were pipes and tunnels leading all through it. Water dripped and pooled in some areas. But the tag of 'SFMS' was stenciled on all the equipment. _San Francisco Municipal Services she realized. They walked another quarter mile, and then down another flight of stairs. Those stairs led to a den, or perhaps 'warren' would be a better word, of demons._

Old sheets, bits of cloth or sometimes even plastic were hung up to define dwelling spaces. People mingled back and forth, all of them watching her and Xander with a mix of suspicion and outright fear. There were males and females present. And, she realized, offspring. She caught glimpses of children running about ahead, only to be herded into one of the enclosures before Buffy and Xander got there. She heard giggles coming from these. Not the cruel chuckles of demons who live to torture and devour humans, but the genuine giggles of children.

As she looked about, she began to notice a space of ages in the populace as well. There were young and old and ancient. There were many who appeared feeble; many looked ill. All about there was an air of poverty. 

They navigated the makeshift lanes between the tent-like dwellings under the prodding of their captors until coming to a large air vent running horizontally from the wall. The vent was made of concrete and was a circle at least ten feet in diameter.  The shaft of the vent ran ten feet from where they were standing to a large fan. The blades of the fan were running slowly, but Buffy knew that the gleaming steel could cut even her to ribbons if she tried to go out that way. Xander was pushed in first, and then Buffy after. Across the entrance the demons placed a metal grating, and locked it in place. Most of their captors walked off, but two remained to stand guard.

Buffy and Xander sat down on the curved concrete surface of the tunnel. They looked about cautiously, but determined that there was no one about to hear them talk.

"What do you make of it?" Xander asked quietly.

"Weird," Buffy said. "I mean, it's not what I would have expected from a hoard of demons." She looked about again, back through the grating at the makeshift city. "It's almost sad."

"There's no almost about it, Buff." Xander was strangely serious. "This is the sucks-o-rama of a life. These people … demons, whatever … they've got nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. The old first-time-playing-Zelda score." He shook his head. "I don't mean to sound out of line here, but I've seen places like this on the news. _In __Bosnia!" He turned to her, seriousness etched on his brow. "Buffy, this doesn't make us look like the good guys, you know."_

"I know," she said, and meant it. "I need to think," she said absently.

"Sure thing," Xander said, and moved himself further down the tunnel. "Just let me know when you decide what we're going to do, okay?" He turned away, not expecting a reply.

Buffy saw the same things Xander saw. The difference was that Xander felt those things as well. He was deeply emotional, even empathetic. That's why he cultivated such a continual, sarcastic wit. It kept the world at bay so that he wasn't overwhelmed by it. But Buffy knew of his loyalty to her. She knew of his black-and-white view of the world. There was right and there was wrong for Xander; good and evil. That's why he had such a hard time with Spike. Spike was evil; for Xander, that was enough.

So, if Xander in his black-and-white view of the world should take pity on these demons, Buffy knew that she seriously needed to rethink things. It was possible that the sympathy was misplaced. These demons may be just as willing to kill her as look at her. They may just decide to go ahead and roast her and Xander for dinner. From the looks of things, the two of them might be the most nutritious thing this group had seen in months. They could be vicious and evil, but somehow Buffy didn't think so.

Then she realized that Xander only saw with human eyes. She was seeing the truth of things. So maybe if Xander saw what she saw, he'd change his mind and all of this would make sense again. _Good idea, she thought to herself, and reached down to take out the Amulet of Arinoth to loan to Xander. That's when she remembered that it was still in Congressman Greene's office._

"Xander," she said quietly.

"Yeah Buff," he replied.

"Xander, I don't have the amulet anymore," she said quietly. "It's still in the congressman's office." She felt a chill go down her spine.

"Okay, one more thing to add to the to do list. We'll put that one right after break out, grab the file, and oh yea, figure out what the hell is going on." Xander, at least, was finding his own personality returning.

Buffy, on the other hand, was finding herself drawn more and more into the question of what she was seeing. If she had the amulet, would she see anything different? She didn't think so. That simply gave rise to more questions. Perhaps these demons weren't so, well, demonic. If that was the case, the congressman was probably deceiving them. Maybe they were just pawns in his game. Poor, starving, desperate pawns.

Buffy was pulled from her thoughts by the opening of the grate. A demon entered their tunnel, a long knife in his hand. Buffy stood up to face him. She turned her body into a combat stance, or at least the best facsimile of one she could muster with her hands tied behind her back. 

The demon, though, held up his hand. "I'm not here to hurt you," he said. "My name is Torry. I'm Ray's brother."

"What's with the knife, then?" Buffy asked, keeping herself positioned to parry any attack he might spring.

"Well, I thought you might be more comfortable if I removed the ropes around your wrists," the demon replied calmly.

"Why would you do that?" Buffy asked suspiciously.

"For two reasons. First, because I really don't like seeing people tied up," he shrugged a little self-consciously at the admission. "I don't think any sentient creature should have to go through that if we can avoid it. Second, because you're going to promise me that you won't try to escape until we get this thing figured out." He smiled.

"Why would we do that?" Buffy asked again.

"Because it's the only way to get me to cut you loose. That's why." The demon shrugged again, content to let Buffy think it over.

Buffy watched the demon for a long time, gauging his honesty. "Twenty-four hours," she said. "I'll give you twenty-four hours, and then I'm free to try and escape."

"Deal," he said, and swiftly cut through the ropes binding her hands. "Him, too?" the demon asked.

"Yeah," Buffy replied. "He'll abide by it."

With that, Torry cut Xander's bonds as well. Xander's wrists were still encircled by the metal police cuffs, although the chain between them had been broken by Buffy. "Anything you can do about these?" Xander asked, holding up his wrists.

"Possibly," Torry said, and then turned to look at Buffy. "Why don't I show you around. We may be able to find something to eat, and I'd like to find out more about you."

He began to walk out of the tunnel, so Buffy and Xander had no choice but to follow. He led them back along one of the tent lanes towards an area in back. The whole time they walked, he pointed and talked like a tour guide.

"Only a handful of human's have ever seen this," he said, indicating the city as a whole. "We settled here in '98 after getting the contract to maintain the underground equipment of the municipal service. It's not much money for the work that has to be done, and only those of us born with the ability to mimic humans are officially on the payroll. But everyone here pitches in, and we all share in the profits. It's usually enough to buy food enough for everyone along with some of our other sources."

He led them into a large common area where food was being served. It was, to Buffy's surprise, normal food, if a little bland. There were large pans of pasta in steamer trays, and everyone was lined up cafeteria style. At one end were some rolls, which turned out to be day old. Torry handed them trays and they got in line with the rest of them. Buffy inquired as to the recipe for the red sauce, expecting blood or brain to be at least one of the ingredients. _Ragu_, she was informed simply. _And worms_, Torry added. Buffy and Xander decided to skip the sauce.

So, sitting and talking over plates of spaghetti and day old bread, Torry continued his story. "We're what you might call refugees. You call us demons, but that simply means that we're not from this dimension. And to be completely honest, no, we're not. But that doesn't make us bloodthirsty villains, either. We'd prefer to live in harmony with humans, if we could arrange it. That's not very likely, though."

"If it's not very likely, why come here?" Buffy asked.

"Well, a lot of folks would say 'stupidity.' Frankly, I'm inclined to agree with them. But the long and the short of it is that we didn't intend to come _here_, per se. We just needed to be _not there_." Torry paused a moment to gauge their reactions. "Our home dimension was overrun by demons of a violent and brutal nature. They killed many of us; they enslaved even more of us. When it became apparent that all was lost, those of us that could run, ran. We ran to the hills, to the mythical Gates of the Gods. With the right spells and incantations, we were able to open a portal out of that dimension to someplace else.

"The only problem was, we didn't know enough to be able to specify where that someplace else was. We just needed to get anyplace else. So we ended up here." He shrugged again. It was, apparently, the most utilitarian human gesture he knew.

"Sounds like you could've used a better travel agent," Xander commented.

"You ain't kidding," Torry replied. "We were in just such a rush, what with being hunted down and systematically exterminated and all, that we took what we could get. And, just to be sure, we blew up the portal behind us. So, we ended up here, and have had to make our way ever since."

As Torry talked, Xander felt someone watching him. He looked over to his side, to see a disheveled little demon with long hair and stained frock staring at him. She picked up an old newspaper and held it in front of her face, but Xander could hear giggling from behind it. Cautiously, he took one finger and drew down the paper until he could see her eyes.

"Peek-a-boo," Xander said, and the little demon girl giggled some more. Xander even smiled a bit.

"Would you like to see my dolly?" the little girl asked.

"Sure," Xander said, and was promptly presented with a ragged Barbie doll. It was well worn, with big tufts of hair missing. One foot was missing. It had obviously been picked out of the trash. Subsequently, it had been painted blue and had small thorns glued to its face so that it more greatly resembled the owner.

"My sister said she was ugly, but I fixed her, see?" the little girl chattered on. "I made her skin the right color and added her _holbos," she pointed to the thorns on the face. "Now she's beautiful!" The girl looked up at him with wide eyes. "Don't you think she's beautiful now?"_

Xander sought for words for only a moment. "Not as beautiful as you are," he said to the little girl, and she smiled. Xander then turned his attention back to Buffy and Torry.

"And now here we are, a refugee colony reduced to a state of abject poverty. Hunted by the demons that have taken over our home, and by humans as well. There's been very few humans we have learned to trust. Congressman Greene is one of them. But then we find you two snooping around in his office, which wasn't so bad. But the particular file you had – well, that's a whole new ballgame.

"So, I'm going to ask you this once, and only once. Who are you working for? Who hired you to help destroy us?" 

* * *

Xander and Buffy lay in the concrete tunnel, trying to get comfortable. It was going to be awhile before they could attempt an escape. The challenge Torry had laid down to them had come as a shock. They could scarcely form words, let alone an explanation. Tongue-tied, they grappled with the question for a few minutes.

Then Buffy tried the truth. There was nothing much that could go any more wrong, now was there? So she began explaining. In actuality, she didn't get through more than a handful of words before Torry got up from the table and had them escorted back here, to their makeshift holding cell. Reflecting on it, Buffy thought that perhaps, _We think Congressman Greene is an evil, body-stealing demon who's using you and trying to kill me was not the best way to begin the conversation._

And so they had ended up back here, watching the hours crawl by to the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of the water, waiting for an opportunity to try and escape. It would be morning soon, when the demons mostly went to sleep. Perhaps then.

  



	20. Chapter 19 Dark Rescue

**  
** Chapter 19 

Dark Rescue

Sunnydale / San Francisco – May 24th  

Willow sat at the computer in her dorm room checking the progress of her searches. The Initiative files had been seventy percent decrypted, which was significant progress. Willow tried a simple test first, typing in the name, "Riley Finn." The computer almost instantly returned over two dozen matches. Willow checked one at random, and found it to be a mission debrief that he had written.

So, it was working. Willow was pleased. She typed in another search term: jornikof. The computer worked for a moment, and then returned the message 'No Matches Found.' _Hmm, Willow thought, _It still has thirty percent to decrypt. We'll try again later._ She turned when the door opened; it was Tara, returning from the shower._

"Hey, baby, how's it going?" Tara asked.

"Seventy percent done," Willow said, but frowned. "Still no match on our demon, though."

"It was kind of a long-shot though, wasn't it?" Tara asked, attempting to make Willow feel better.

"I know," said Willow. "But I was kinda hoping. I was feeling lucky this morning, so I decided to try something long-shotty."

Tara yawned. "Well, you don't have a class until ten. Why don't you come back to bed for awhile."

Willow turned to her computer, and then back to Tara. It wasn't a difficult decision; Willow closed the lid on her laptop.

Laying her head on the pillow, she sighed. "How do you think Buffy and Xander are doing?" she asked.

"I don't know," Tara said, stroking Willow's hair. "I'm sure that there's nothing they might run into that Buffy couldn't handle, though."

"You're right," Willow said. "There's nothing to worry about."

* * *

"That's Harris' truck, all right," said Captain Mac over the two-way. He was sitting in a black Ford Explorer with tinted windows on a side street in San Francisco. The team had been deployed as soon as the break-in at the congressman's office had gone out over the police net. The suspect descriptions had matched those of Buffy and Xander, and Madame LaFusce had ordered the team out.

The team had driven all night, and everyone was on edge. They had no idea what awaited them, or how they would find the Slayer. They knew the two were not in police custody. They also hadn't returned to their vehicle to return home. They had to assume worst case, which meant going in with as much firepower as they could carry. 

Unfortunately, the city was busy at this time of the morning. It was broad daylight, and they couldn't very well deploy a heavily armed fighting force to search for the missing Slayer. The mission was showing very little sign of having any chance of success.

"Copy that, Mac," Sheffield's voice responded. "I will reconnoiter, the rest of you sit tight."

"Say again," Mac responded, somewhat mystified. "That is not protocol," he protested.

"You have your orders," Sheffield responded coldly. "Keep me on GPS. Sheffield out."

Captain MacKenzie grew more uncomfortable. He turned to Johnson who was sitting next to him. "Light it up, lad," he said. Johnson pulled out the portable tracking device and turned it on. A map of San Francisco was displayed, and the Major's signal was strong and clear on it. It began to move.

Major Sheffield walked slowly down an alleyway, carefully checking about him. When he was sure he was not being observed, he pulled out the package the old woman had given him. A small silver bowl fit just in the cup of his hand, and he placed the black stone in its center. Taking a deep breath, he began reading the first of the three incantations. The stone began to glow from within a deep red.

Next, he drew out his combat knife, and carefully cut his thumb. He curled the digit around the small bowl and pressed it along the rim. Droplets of blood began to slide into the bowl. He read the second incantation, and the bowl grew warm in his hand. His blood began to sizzle.

Breathing slowly, he took out the third item from his pocket: a single strand of the Slayers hair. He dropped it in the bowl, and it instantly burnt to ash, sending wisps of smoke curling upwards. He read the third incantation, and as he did the smoke took form.

Sitting in the bowl was a small creature, not unlike a tiny gargoyle. Its limbs were long and twisted, its mouth cruel. The skin was black all over, except for the eyes, which burned like red coals. It hissed at him and flicked its small, forked tongue. It was a vile looking creature, but Madame LaFusce had explained its use.

"Creature of darkness," Sheffield said to it, "you have tasted the one I seek in the offering I have given you. Find her now, for she is close by. And when you have completed this task, begone from this realm."

The creature hissed once again, and then leapt from the bowl. It looked back once to make sure Sheffield was following him, sniffed the air about him, and then began to walk down the alley. It darted back and forth down the alley and the Major had to run occasionally to keep up with it. But he kept it in sight as they twisted in towards the old city of San Francisco.

In the dark Explorers, the rest of the team drove cautiously and circuitously around, keeping the Major in the center of their triangle. Mac was suspicious of how Sheffield planned to find the Slayer, but their relationship was already strained to the breaking point. One more conflict with the Major, and Mac could be bounced out of the service. So he bit his lip and drove, waiting to see where this would take them.

The creature eventually stopped nearly a mile from where they'd started. It stood on an industrial grate, hopping up and down. It pointed to the grate and hissed and chittered. Sheffield walked up to it and looked down at the grate.

It was a ventilation shaft from somewhere deep below the city. Sunlight only penetrated about a dozen feet down, then all was lost in darkness. The area of the city they were in was largely unused. Not abandoned, exactly; but there was no one strolling about, either. He looked at the creature. "She's down there?" he asked. It leapt up and down and chittered again. Then, with a last vile hiss, turned to smoke and vanished.

The Major looked around. They could deploy from here and not be seen. They could exit in several directions. It was an excellent operating point. And if the old woman was to be believed, the Slayer would be found within fifty feet of this shaft. He picked up his two-way. "Gentleman, we have a lock. Converge on this point. Over."

* * *

Buffy and Xander were sleeping, albeit fitfully, when the noise came. It sounded at first like one of the machines had suddenly one awry. A loud _Boom! Crack!_ That was followed by several more. Then the screams came.

Buffy and Xander ran to the grating that defined their prison, and could see movement in the distance. At first it was simply a swaying of the fabric of the tent city; a rippling of the homes. Then they saw demons scrambling away. Individuals and family groups darted through the edges of the city, seeking a way out. Mothers carried screaming babies in their arms; the elderly tried to lean on one another and hobble out of the way.

From the center of this maelstrom they first saw flashlights waving around in all directions. Then they heard the shouts. Eventually, they saw the guns. Five commandos emerged from the refugee city, armed with rifles surmounted by flashlights. They wore black body armor and helmets and moved in a tight configuration. The resembled a porcupine with rifle barrel quills, and they were moving towards Buffy and Xander.

"You don't think that maybe those are the same guys who took out Spike, do you?" Xander asked nervously.

"I'm not waiting to find out," Buffy said. She grasped the grating and with a single, hard shove knocked it off its brackets. "You find Torry and get him to give you the file," she ordered Xander. "Get that file to Giles, no matter what. I'll hold these guys off."

"No way, Buff," Xander said. "I'm not leaving you."

Buffy had no more time to argue. She cartwheeled out of the tunnel and into the group of soldiers.  Her feet knocked the lead gun away, and then she was upright in their center. A few quick moves knocked two others flying. "Get the file," she yelled, and then turned to the two others.

Xander was off and running. Not knowing where else to go, he headed back towards the center of the city. He saw Torry instantly, mainly because he was one of the few demons moving towards the armed humans instead of away from them. Xander reached out and grabbed him.

"Listen to me," Xander shouted. "Buffy is holding those guys off single handed." He pointed to where Buffy could be seen knocking the soldiers about. "We're on your side!"

Buffy did a backflip over one opponent and spun around towards another. She grabbed the barrel of his rifle and bent it. Then the butt of one of the weapons caught her on the side of the head. She staggered, and then stuck back.

"How?" Torry asked, somewhat bewildered.

"She's the Slayer," Xander said. Then, sensing that it wasn't the most comforting thing to say, he added, "And you have nothing to fear from her if you're as peaceful as you say." Torry looked over at him, searching. "But we need that file," Xander said.

Torry nodded once. He wasn't sure why, but he believed this human. The other one was fighting the soldiers. This one was promising to help. Seeing her fight, Torry realized that she could have escaped any time she wanted; but she had kept her word. He turned and led Xander away. He would trust these two.

In the center of the fray, Buffy was tiring. She had taken several blows from the weapons, and the soldiers' body armor had deflected most of the force of hers. She wasn't sure how long she could hold out against them. There was a moment of respite, when the soldiers backed off, forming a loose circle around her. She looked about, trying to decide which way to go next. She waited for them to make their move.

One of them put his gun down and tore off his black ski mask. Beneath it was a shock of red hair and freckles. His face was covered in sweat, and his breathing was ragged. "I'm Captain MacKenzie," he wheezed out. "We're here to bloody well rescue you."

"Rescue?" Buffy asked, incredulously.

"Aye," he said. "We were sent here by Madame LaFusce." Buffy looked around doubtfully. "She said you'd be a stubborn idiot of a girl, but I try not to listen to the annoying old bag of wind. But in this case, she appears to have been right."

Buffy relaxed slightly. She wanted to believe him. Another moment and she would've. But then she was hit by 100,000 volts from behind, and lost consciousness before she could make up her mind.

"What did you do that for?" Mac yelled.

"We don't have time for chit-chat, Captain," Sheffield responded. "Let's just get going." Sheffield walked over the body of the Slayer and grabbed Mac by the weapon harness he wore. "You've endangered this mission enough already. Now get that mask back on and not another word out of you." He turned to the others. "Grab the girl and let's go," he said. Turning back to Mac he added, "And clean some of this nest out on your way back."

Mac held his gaze defiantly. "I willna kill children," he hissed.

"Have it your way, Mister," Sheffield hissed back. He would've said more, but the three others had grabbed the Slayer and were carrying her out. "Cover the extraction," he said instead, and took the lead.

Mac looked about him at the scared faces of the demons around him. Something was very wrong, he decided. Very, very wrong.

  



	21. Chapter 20 Who to Trust?

**  
** Chapter 20 

Who to Trust?

Sunnydale – May 24th 

"Miss Summers?" a voice drifted in from the dark. "Miss Summers?" Buffy cracked an eyelid, and a blurry figured swam before her eyes. She felt a bit nauseous. She tried to recall where she was. "Miss Summers," the voice said again, "It's Mister Giles for you."

Buffy blinked her eyes again and the image before her came into focus. It was a man she didn't recognize holding a cell phone. He lifted the phone up to her ear. "Hello," she said thickly.

"Buffy?" Giles voice floated across to her.

"Giles?" she asked, fighting through disorientation.

"Oh thank God!" he exclaimed. "Buffy, listen to me. You've been rescued," Giles said urgently. "The men you're with work for the watcher's council. They're pretty unorthodox, but you can trust them; at least as much as we can trust anyone."

Buffy licked her lips and tried to focus. "Xander?"

"He's fine," Giles said. "He called a few minutes ago. He's got the file and he's bringing it to me. We'll regroup in Sunnydale."

"Okay." Buffy was silent for a moment. "Giles?"

"Yes, Buffy?" Giles said warmly.

"Giles, we saw something there. There were demons …" she said slowly.

"Xander told me," Giles said. "We'll talk about it more when you get here. For now, just rest. You need to recover your strength."

"Okay," she said, and then fell back to sleep.

* * *

Towards sunset, Xander walked into the Magic Box carrying the file. "Where's Buffy?" he asked. "Is she okay?"

Giles walked around the counter, cleaning his glasses as he went. "She hasn't arrived here, but I wouldn't worry. They may have gone to Madame LaFusce first." It was clear that Giles was disturbed, though.

Anya came around and threw her arms around Xander. "Hey sweetie, I'm so glad you're home." She kissed him several times. "I was so worried about you. When I heard what had happened, I was afraid that I might not see you again. And I didn't know what I'd do without you. I mean, who would I see in the morning? And who would I kiss goodnight? And who would leave his boxer shorts on the couch? Or put empty milk cartons back in the fridge?" She took a breath to continue, but Xander stopped her babbling with a kiss.

Giles deftly took the folder from Xander's hand and brought it over to the table. Willow and Tara gathered around to see what was inside it. The first page was the mysterious warning: Beware the Ring of Arinoth.

"Well, that's interesting," Giles muttered.

"It makes sense," Tara said. "I mean, if it can show him for what he really is, then he should beware of it, right?"

"Only we made an amulet, not a ring," Willow said.

"Quite," Giles said. He pondered the message and then looked at the next pages: the clinic request. "This is interesting, but I'm not sure why it's here."

He passed it to Willow, who looked at it briefly. She flipped back and forth between the two pages, and then handed it to Tara. Tara looked at it, and then compared it to the first page. "The fax number," she said.

"What?" Giles asked, looking up from the third set of papers.

"The first page has the number of the fax machine that sent it printed on the top, see? That's the same number as the clinic." Tara pointed out the numbers.

"Good catch," Willow said. "You're so smart."

"You're the smart one," Tara said shyly.

"Yes, well, anyway," Giles said, interrupting them. "This last set appears to be written in ancient Etruscan – phonetically so, at any rate. I'll need to grab a couple of references to translate it. Excuse me." Giles walked off to the back of the shop where his personal books were kept.

"What now?" Anya asked.

"We wait," Willow said. Everyone looked at one another uncomfortably.

* * *

Captain MacKenzie sat on the edge of a bed, watching as Major Sheffield paced back and forth in the small room. He had been ordered up here, alone, as soon as they arrived back at the safehouse. Sheffield had kept him waiting for nearly thirty minutes, undoubtedly while he consulted Madame LaFusce. Sheffield finally turned and faced him, his arms crossed across his chest. He stared at Mac.

"You're moving pretty limber, Major," Mac observed. "Did you finally let the lass cast her spell on you?"

"Do not speak," Sheffield said quietly, his voice backed with steel. "You do not get to speak."

"Is that a yes, then?" Mac was unmoved by the threats. "How many other spells has she been casting on you, lad?" 

"Do not push me," Sheffield warned.

"Let me guess," Mac continued. "She gave you a wee spell to find the Slayer, didn't she? Something the rest of us aren't supposed to know about." He nodded as he saw Sheffield's jaw clench. "You've grown to like it, haven't you? And now you canna make a move without consulting her." He nodded at the Major with pity, not anger.

Sheffield turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

"What I don't understand is," Xander was saying to the group, still waiting for Giles to return with his translation.

Anya seized his arm and pointed accusingly at the handcuff, still bound to his wrist. "Where'd you get this?" she asked angrily.

"Courtesy of the San Francisco PD," he said, smiling embarrassedly. "Honestly, I hear everyone's going to wearing them next year."

"I don't see how that could be," Anya said, pursing her lips.

"What?" replied Xander. "I told you, I was standing in the conference room waiting for Buffy – "

"Not that," she replied, rolling her eyes. "The part about everyone wearing them. I mean, what actually goes with stainless steel?" She cast about the table looking for suggestions from the others. Willow and Tara shook their heads. "See, nothing. Well, there was this one outfit I saw in the court of Louis XIV. There was a lot of vengeance going on at that time; I was very busy."

"Anyway," Willow interrupted. "You were saying Xander?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, and mouthed the words _Thank You back at his friend. He loved Anya with all his heart, but even he knew not to let her get on a roll about how things were in the Renaissance. "What I don't get is how come we never meet friendly demons. All the ones we meet are like Godzilla with PMS."_

"Godzilla was a girl?" Dawn asked from behind him. They all turned to see her come and sit down. "What? Mom said I could down here," she said defensively. Her eyes shifted around the room. "Where's Spike?" she asked.

Everyone looked around uncomfortably. None of them were willing to break the news to her. They all knew she was fond of him for some bizarre reason. Even Xander, who hated Spike, wouldn't injure Dawn with a callous remark about the vampire's death. "Last we knew, he was at Giles' place," he said diplomatically.

"Oh, okay," she said, smiling. "So, you met some friendly demons? That musta been pretty rad."

"Odd is more like it," Xander said, warming at the chance to get back to his original subject. "But I just can't figure it."

"Well, they're a lot smarter than us, you know," Anya said.

"No way," Willow protested. "We had Einstein," she said, nodding at her point.

"Yeah," Tara joined in, "and DaVinci."

"And Stan Lee," Xander added.

"Stanley who?" Dawn asked.

"Not Stanley," Xander replied. "Stan Lee." He used his hands to indicate that it was two separate words. The women at the table stared at him blankly. "You know, he invented Spider-Man. The guy's a genius."

"Oh," Anya said, "comic book reference. Adolescent male serial fantasy magazines." She nodded with her mastery of the subject. "But that's not what I mean. I just mean that they're smarter than _us_, living here in Sunnydale and all. I mean, who would actually choose to live near a hellmouth? Most of your peaceful species of demons live elsewhere. Many live in large cities like L.A., New York and Cleveland."

"Cleveland?" Dawn asked. "Isn't that where the river caught fire?"

"Oh, that," relied Anya, waving her hand dismissively. "Honestly, I told Molof that he couldn't keep draining his bath house into the river. I mean, between the slime devils and the Bilnoks, it's no wonder the thing just didn't spontaneously combust."

"Cleveland. Huh." Xander was impressed.

"So, you're saying that if we went to a big city, we might run into some nice, friendly demons instead of the mean, man-isn't-the-top-of-the-food-chain ones we get here?" Willow was trying to find something upbeat to think about. "That might be a change of pace."

"Well, you'd do better in the Amazon jungle, really," Anya replied back. "I mean, you could run into some nice demons in a city, but they have just as many evil ones as we do. The problem is that near a hellmouth, the good ones don't stand a chance. There's always somebody out there ready to kill you on sight."

"Hey, doesn't Cleveland have a Hellmouth?" Tara asked.

"It does now," Anya answered, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, it totally ruined the neighborhood when it opened. These days a friendly demon wouldn't be caught dead there." She paused. "No, actually, the only way they would be caught would be dead, because that's what happens to friendlies around a hellmouth."

"What caused it to open?" Willow inquired. "I mean, we know why the one in Sunnydale opened – the Mayor did it a hundred years ago."

"Well," Anya began, launching into a good rumor-fest, "some people think it was the Drew Carey show. You know, focusing all that attention on the space. But I don't think that's true. I think it was a government experiment gone awry." She nodded with confidence.

* * *

Buffy woke slowly from a deep sleep. The same man who she saw in the car was sitting on the edge of her bed. She blinked several times, trying to focus. Being the Slayer, her body recovered more readily than most people would; that's why she caught a glimpse of the medic putting a syringe away in his case. Buffy crinkled her brow trying to understand it.

"Where am I?" she asked.

"Staging area," he said. "We're just about ready to begin the operation."

"Operation?" she asked, confused. "I'm not sick."

The medic smiled. "No, Operation: Demon Strike. We're getting ready to go after the jornikof. You're our star player, so it's time to get up and shake away the cobwebs." Buffy began to sit up, but her stomach rebelled. "Easy there," the medic said, putting an arm around her. "The nausea will pass in a moment. It's a common side effect."

"Side effect of what?" she asked.

"The sedative," he said. "You took a nasty electrical shock. We sedated you so that you could heal." He smiled his most charming smile.

"I heal fine on my own," she relied coldly, pushing his arm off her shoulder. She looked about the room. It was plain, having only two beds and several backpacks lined up against one wall. She attempted sitting again, and with a force of will kept her stomach. Right about that time, two people entered the room.

The old woman she knew only too well: Madame LaFusce. The other one was clearly a soldier, and by the way the medic jumped up and saluted, he was the one in charge. The medic grabbed his bag and walked out of the room.

"You shouldn't have done anything without my permission," Madame LaFusce began harshly. "You could have ruined everything! You stupid girl. If you weren't the Slayer, I'd have left you in that stinking pen." She paced the room briefly, visibly bringing herself under control.

"This is Major Sheffield," she said abruptly, introducing the soldier. "He is in charge of the operation tonight. You will obey him. Clear?"

"Crystal," Buffy replied without enthusiasm. Her eyes shot daggers at the old Frenchwoman as she stormed out. Someday soon, she was going to put that woman in her place.

The Major cleared his throat to get her attention. "We roll in one hour," he said. "We need to get you briefed and outfitted. Then we go get this demon." His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was an underlying eagerness to it that made Buffy uncomfortable. He turned to leave.

"Can I see that other officer," she asked suddenly. "The one who talked to me during the rescue? The Irish guy."

"That would be Captain MacKenzie," Sheffield replied stiffly. "He's Scottish, not Irish."

"Sorry," Buffy replied, slightly embarrassed.

"No matter," Sheffield replied. "They're all the same anyway." He paused a moment while he wrestled his control back into place. "But the answer is no, you cannot speak to him."

"Why not?" Buffy asked, standing to show she wasn't afraid of the grizzled old soldier. "I'm the star here, aren't I?" she challenged.

Sheffield sniffed at her dismissively. "Just follow orders, and we'll get along fine, missy. And as for Mac, he's been relieved of duty and is no longer a part of this mission."

Sheffield turned abruptly and left the room, leaving Buffy more confused than before. _What, she wondered again, _is going on here?__

  



	22. Chapter 21 The Legend of Arinoth

**  
** Chapter 21 

The Legend of Arinoth

Sunnydale – May 24th 

"Oh dear Lord in Heaven," Giles muttered as he walked back to the table where the group was sitting. He carried the file document Xander had retrieved along with a sheaf of notes in one hand. In the other he carried several open books wedged precariously together. He dumped everything down onto the table. Everyone else just stared at him in shock.

He took his glasses off, and wiped his brow. "Willow," he said, "what have you found out from the Initiative files?"

"Nothing," she said. "Last time I checked, they didn't have anything on jornikof demons."

"Did you search for anything on Congressman Greene?" he asked.

"Uh, no," she said. "Should I?"

"Please do. Immediately," he said. Willow took out her laptop and began to connect it up. "Tara," he said, turning his attention to her, "I need you to write down as much as you can about the spell that created the amulet."

"But, Madame LaFusce said – " Tara began.

"I don't give a damn what that woman said," Giles snapped. "I'm sorry, Tara. It's not your fault. But I need to know exactly what was done. It could be a matter of life and death. Possibly Buffy's." Tara nodded and took out a pen and paper.

"Wait," said Anya. "I kept track of all the ingredients they used. You know, for billing purposes. Let me grab it; that should help." Tara and Anya raced over to the counter and began looking through the ledger book.

"What about me, big guy?" Xander asked.

"Can you think of anything useful you can do right now?" Giles asked.

"Gotcha," Xander replied, and leaned back in his chair quietly.

"I got something," Willow said. "It seems that Congressman Greene was on an Initiative watch list. He's been pushing for the formation of a Bureau of Non-Terrestrial Life in order to forward, 'an understanding of demons species, both friendly and hostile, and to develop supportive and defensive structures respectively.'"

"I don't get it," Xander said. "That doesn't sound like the work of a strife demon. It's not very strifey."

"That's because he's not," Willow replied. "They categorize him as human, and they have a fairly recent DNA screen to prove it. And listen to this, his niece is an ethnodemonologist. She even married one. No, wait, two."

"She has two husbands?" Dawn asked.

"No, her first husband was half-demon and is listed as deceased. The other is a restaurateur in L.A."

"Here it is," said Tara, handing Giles the sheet, slightly out of breath.

Giles examined it closely for a few moments. "That makes sense," he said finally. "Madame LaFusce didn't keep me out of this because she didn't like me; she kept me out of this because she knew I'd be able to tell that what it was you were really casting."

* * *

Buffy looked at herself in the mirror. She was dressed in black like the other commandos, but carried no backpack or weapon harness. Her hair had been tied back and tucked under a black stocking cap. They had given her an ear clip communicator to keep in touch with the team. Somehow, the outfit made her more nervous than she normally was.

Major Sheffield walked up to her and handed her a shotgun. "This has got special ammo," he explained. "You should only need one shot, but make sure you're good and close. Then just point it at his chest and pull the trigger. You can't miss."

"No problem," Buffy said, gingerly taking the unfamiliar weight.

"Good," he said. "It's time to go." He turned and walked out the door. After a last look in the mirror, Buffy followed.

* * *

"The other set of papers is part of a demon history," Giles was explaining, holding his notes up to read. "By the sounds of it, it's an oral history, so there may have been some drift in the story. However, I think the gist of it is fairly consistent with what we know so far."

Giles looked down at the translation and began reading. "In the time of the Pharaohs in the Egypt, there was one great priest of Horace named Suankma. Sunankma could perform many miracles and wielded great power. He gained much favor with the pharaoh for his many powers and acts, and soon became a favorite in the royal household.

"Now there was another, an Egyptian of Greek descent, for Alexander had placed his own in power after the conquering of Egypt. This one was Arin-Othep, and he grew jealous of the power that Sunankma had collected to himself. Arin-Othep was himself a sorcerer of great repute, but his power was as nothing compared to the power of Sunankma. So Arin-Othep set out to discover the source of Sunankma's power.

"Secretly he followed Sunankma for thirty days, seeking to find the way of power that the great Sorcerer had. Everywhere Sunankma went, Arin-Othep followed. He enlisted spies from the royal household to be eyes for him. He could not, though, learn Sunankma's secrets, and grew despaired.

"Sunankma had a slave named Torquoth, who knew all things that his master did and said, who followed him as a shadow. Torquoth sought nothing for himself, but only thought to further his master's glory. He desired no thing; and wanted for no desire. Until there came a time when Torquoth looked upon the daughter of a merchant, and desire enflamed his heart.

"Sunankma soon heard of his slave's obsession, and summoned him, telling him that his heart had exceeded his station. Sunankma then sent Torquoth away, telling him that it would be better that the sands consume his flesh and bones than he try to rise above his place.

"Arin-Othep saw this as his chance. He sent men to find Torquoth, and brought him to the palace. He placed upon him a fine robe, and a headdress of a noble. He anointed his head with oil, and gave him a fine room overlooking the gardens. Then he purchased the daughter of the merchant, and gave her to Torquoth as a slave. In return, Torquoth told Arin-Othep of the secret place in the temple, where Sunankma gained his power and learned his sorceries.

"Arin-Othep went there, and found a place to conceal himself, and waited for Sunankma to come, so that he could learn the other's secrets. That night, Sunankma came to his secret place, and casting a circle called forth a demon, and bargained with it. He made pacts with it to speak magics for Sunankma's learning. For this was how Sunankma learned all his magic, through the summoning and bargaining with demons.

"Arin-Othep was furious of this, for in his heart he felt that Sunankma was defiling the house of Horace, and bringing to extinction the race of men. He went then to Pharaoh, and accused Sunankma of heresies, and of endangering the kingdom. Pharaoh dismissed the accusations, and warned Arin-Othep to stay away from Sunankma. The next night, Arin-Othep pleaded his case again with the Pharaoh, and again was warned away. On the third night, desperate, Arin-Othep went to the Pharaoh and offered to him an amulet of his own devising, to make amends for his earlier behavior. The amulet was finely made, and through it, Pharaoh was told, mysteries would be revealed.

"Pharaoh accepted the amulet, and wore it the next day. When Sunankma came into his presence, Arin-Othep retired from the throne room with seven of his students. To them, he had taught powerful incantations, and with them formed a ring in the antechamber. This ring of men cast a spell, and in that instant Pharaoh saw Sunankma revealed as being himself a demon."

* * *

Mac waited until he heard the cars drive away. When he was sure they were gone, he tested his bindings. Major Sheffield had removed his status and ordered him confined to quarters. Since no guard could be spared, he was instead bound to the bed with plastic cable ties, the kind often referred to as 'zip tights.' They were commonly used as makeshift handcuffs by riot police, and so was the case here.

His hands were tightly bound above his head, sturdily run through the headboard of the bed. That, too, was unbreakable. He pulled and strained briefly, seeing if he could snap either the fasteners or the headboard, but neither one showed any signs of surrendering.

Spinning a bit on the bed and twisting himself around, Mac has able to move into a kneeling position. From there, he was able to place his left foot near his hands. With a bit of straining, twisting, and careful finger work, Mac was able to free the small knife he always kept in that boot. Deftly turning it with his fingers, he quickly cut the plastic restraints and was freed.

He replaced the knife in his boot, and then went to quickly assemble his kit. It took only moments to grab all the necessary gear. He couldn't take time to suit-up fully, but he had a backpack with what he needed. He grabbed a pea coat and headed out the door, his exterior calm masking the fear twisting in his gut.

The old woman's rental car was still in the driveway, which was a break. She had apparently gone in the SUVs with the rest of the team. He pulled the .45 caliber pistol from his back and used the butt to smash the window. _Simple_, he thought, _but effective_. He brushed the glass away and climbed in.

He set the backpack on the passenger seat of the vehicle, and pulled from it a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. In moments he had the car hotwired and the steering column torn open. He put the car in reverse, backed into the street, and peeled out at high acceleration.

Reaching into the bag again, he drew out the portable command unit. Turning it on, the GPS signals of the seven other members of the team were displayed in two groups, heading towards the airport. He gazed at the blips.

"I can track you, now, laddies," he muttered out loud. "But the question is whether or not I can stop you."

* * *

Buffy sat in the back seat of the SUV watching the town go by. The plan, such as it was, was simple. The congressman had arrived at the Red Lion near the airport. He was traveling with only a few aides, and only two security men. The team would set up a perimeter and maintain 'extraction integrity.' Buffy wasn't sure, but she thought that meant that they were going to hang out with the getaway car.

Buffy, meanwhile, was supposed to go up to the congressman's room, disable the guards, and then fight and kill the demon. Preferably, she'd do all the killing and there would be very little fighting. "Enter, aim, fire," were Sheffield's instructions. "Don't try anything fancy," he added. "Fancy gets people killed."

It seemed simple enough.

* * *

"I hope all of this sounds familiar, so far," Giles said, wiping his brow. "However, this is where it gets particularly interesting. You see, the Pharaoh, upon seeing the demon, grew mortally afraid. Thinking of nothing else but destroying it, he leapt from his throne, seized a spear from one of the guards, and ran Sunankma through.

"Sunankma fell dead instantly, and in that instant the vision of the demon disappeared. Upon every examination, Sunankma proved to be human. He was eventually vindicated of being a dark creature, but by that time the damage was pretty well done.

"I won't bore you with the rest of the details, but suffice it to say that this story is repeated again and again throughout history. It appears next in sixth century Byzantium, only this time the sorcerer calls himself Arinoth instead of Arin-Othep. The head of one of the churches there executes three priests as demons, who later turn out to be human. Arinoth appears at least twelve more times, getting us to today."

"I don't understand something," Xander said, raising his hand. "Are you saying the amulet is wrong, or that this jornikof demon turns back into a human when you kill it?"

"I'm saying, Xander," Giles replied, cautiously picking his words, "that I don't think there is any such thing as a jornikof demon. From what I can tell from this spell, the amulet that is cast doesn't show someone the truth; it's more like a mystical antenna for visions being cast somewhere else."

"From the ring," Willow concluded. "It's not a piece of jewelry, it's a group of people. The ring of people create a vision, and cast that. The amulet receives it and makes the wearer believe it."

"Yes," said Giles, "I think you're right. This amulet shows Buffy whatever the Ring of Arinoth wants her to believe."

"So, the congressman isn't really a demon," piped up Anya, "but Buffy's going to kill him anyway." She smiled at everyone, proud of having figured that out on her own.

"But why?" Willow asked. "And why kill Spike?"

"You mean _try_ to kill Spike," Dawn corrected.

"Yeah," said Willow, attempting to cover up the slip, "of course. My bad."

"The only thing I can think of is that Congressman Greene is intent on forging relations with peaceful demons. The Ring of Arinoth is motivated out of demon paranoia gone amok. It's not enough to kill the demons; the Ring, whoever they are, are willing to kill anyone who associates with them, even if they're human." Giles thought for a moment. "I'm still not sure why they needed to get rid of the vampire, though."

"It's not that Spike was a vampire … is a vampire," said Tara, smiling at Dawn as she corrected herself. "It's the chip in his head. With that chip, he'll be able to tell that the congressman is human, despite what the amulet says."

Everyone pondered that for a moment. It was beginning to make sense.

"What do we do now?" Dawn asked.

"We stop them," said Giles. "Who knows where the congressman is staying tonight?"

Willow raised her hand. "Ooh, me. He's at the Red Lion at the airport."

"All right, let's get going. And let's pray we aren't too late."

* * *

Buffy walked calmly through the lobby of the Red Lion and entered the elevators. She carried a Fed-Ex tube, inside of which was her weapon. She pressed the button for the tenth floor, and the door closed.

"I'm in the elevator," she said to no one in particular.

"Roger that," came a voice in her ear. The communicator was working perfectly. "We have disabled the elevator cameras. You are free to unpack. This mission is a Go. Repeat: the mission is a Go."

  



	23. Chapter 22 The Confrontation

**  
** Chapter 22 

The Confrontation

Sunnydale – May 24th 

Bobby Phelps liked his job. There really wasn't a lot to it: stay sharp, pay attention, don't let anyone near the congressman who isn't supposed to be there. The pay was good. So what if he needed to work a lot of nights, and weekends, and holidays? It's not like he had better things to do. The congressman was nice enough, too. _A real good guy, that one, Bobby would often say._

Truth be told, there wasn't all that much danger, either. Most of the psychos went after the President, or Rock Stars. A third-term congressman from California barely rated threatening letters. Most of those were of the, "You suck, why don't you just die?" variety. Occasionally, they'd even get one with all the words spelled correctly.

Tonight was just another night for Bobby Phelps. Pay attention, stay sharp. What Bobby really wanted was a chance to meet a nice girl. A pretty blonde California girl who would admire his uniform and pay rapt attention to his stories about the inner workings of government. It was his favorite daydream this week, having supplanted the one about the Porsche 911. _One day, Bobby Phelps thought, _one of these dreams is going to come true_._

Today was Bobby's lucky day; at least he thought so. The elevator dinged once, and a pretty blonde California girl stepped half out, one arm still stuck in the elevator. She seemed to tug at it a couple of times, and then looked up at him.

"Hey, you," Buffy called. "Can you help me with this? I think it's stuck."

Bobby Phelps pointed at his chest. _Me? he mouthed._

"Unless you happen to see a bell hop around here who knows how to get these stupid carts out of the elevator." She smiled her most dazzling smile on him. Bobby hitched up his gun belt and walked down the hallway to her. He never even saw her fist move; his next memory would be several hours from now, being revived by an EMT.

The first guard taken care of, Buffy put her hair back up into the black cap. "Nice job, all star," the voice spoke in her ear.

"Roger that," Buffy replied, but pantomimed sticking her finger down her throat and gagging. She really wasn't cut out for this.

Calmly, she walked down the hallway. Stopping halfway down, to where Bobby Phelps had landed, she took his gun out its holster and bent it. _Better safe than sorry_, she thought.  Then she moved down to the door to the congressman's room. The FedEx tube was empty now – the shotgun was in her hand. It would still prove useful, though.

She knocked on the door once, then again and called out, "Delivery. FedEx." She waited, taking on a bored expression. She suspected the other security guard was observing her through the peep hole.

Dave Buchanan got up from the chair he was sitting on and folded the paper he was reading. He always stayed right by the door, mainly to stay out of the congressman's way. Bobby was on the outside, screening folks. But Bobby's job was only to clear folks who shouldn't be there at all. Dave did the second screen to see if it was someone who needed to see the congressman at that particular time. It was a small distinction, but the older man took it very seriously.

He looked out the peep hole in the door and checked out the girl. He couldn't see Bobby, but he was probably standing just out of sight. The girl was dressed in black, with a stocking cap and a bored expression. The FedEx tube was clearly visible. _Probably one of those bicycle messengers, he thought. She fit the part._

Content with his inspection, he opened the door a crack, the security chain still in place. "Let's see the paperwork," he said. Instead, he got shown the door. Buffy placed a single, powerful kick at the door. It tore the security chain out and hit Dave square and hard. He was knocked back, unconscious. Buffy stepped over the prone guard and pumped the shotgun action once. The round was loaded; she was ready.

She came around the corner into the large central area of the suite. The congressman was sitting on the couch amongst a bunch of papers. To her right, in the small kitchen area, stood Ray. The assistant looked bedraggled, desperately in need of some sleep. _He's been going for over forty-eight hours, Buffy thought. She brought the shotgun up to her shoulder._

"Nobody move," she said. Congressman Greene and Ray looked cautious, but neither scared nor surprised. Buffy shifted the weapons aim from one to the other and back again.

"What are you doing?" came the voice in her ear. "The plan was enter, aim, fire. Execute that plan. Now. Fire." The voice had grown agitated, even desperate.

Buffy reached up and pulled the communicator out of her ear and crushed it in her hand, dropping the parts on the carpet. "The only reason you are still alive," she said to the congressman, "is because I trust them even less than I trust you." She took a deep breath and lowered the shotgun. "Now I have some questions; I hope you have some good answers."

* * *

"We're losing control of the situation," Johnson said to the team.

"Not to worry," Sheffield replied. He turned an eye on Madame LaFusce, who was muttering quietly. 

Taking a breath, she stopped and looked up at him. "The vision is irresistible," she said. "It will take hold." In truth, she wasn't sure why the vision hadn't taken hold already, but she wasn't about to reveal that. Had she known that Buffy didn't have the amulet anymore, she would have been downright panicked. She closed her eyes and returned to her spell, reinforcing the vision that the Ring had cast.

"Major, I think we have another issue," Johnson said. Sheffield looked up to where the other soldier was pointing. "That's Harris' vehicle sir. It looks like Mr. Giles and Miss Rosenberg are getting out and heading into the hotel."

Sheffield smiled. "Well, well, well," he said quietly, "looks like a party." He laughed once, a short bark of a laugh. Then he instructed Johnson. "Quickly, call hotel security and tell them to stop those two. Then send Cook to pick up Mr. Harris."

Johnson nodded and picked up his cell phone. Out of the other vehicle, Cook emerged. He'd heard the order given over the communicator and wasn't about to wait to hear it again. He was still trying to redeem himself from the 'friendly fire' incident. Being one step ahead would help.

"All taken care of," Johnson said, putting his phone down.

"Good," said Sheffield. "All the participants in this little play are now present and accounted for."

* * *

Xander Harris backed his truck into a parking space with a good view of the main entrance. His job was to wait here, keep the truck running, and be ready to move at the first sign of trouble. He was the getaway plan. Xander liked being part of the plan, even if it wasn't a very important part. All he had to do is stay awake and pay attention. Which, given that he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, might prove to be beyond his abilities.

He leaned over to tune the radio and then rolled down his window. "Fresh air and tunes," he said aloud, "the secret to staying awake." The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end as he felt a cold cylinder touch his ear. "A gun to the head works too," he said.

"Get out of the vehicle," a voice behind him instructed. Looking in his rearview mirror, Xander could see the armed and armored gunman half-crouching in the bed of his truck.

Not being one to argue with an armed man, Xander opened his door. His right arm was resting on the gear shift, and he still hadn't been able to find anyone to remove the handcuffs. So it was that he caught himself on the shift and, quite by accident, put the still running truck in gear.

The truck lurched forward, sending the gunman back on his heels. Xander spun and slammed on the brakes. The gunman pitched forward and slammed into the back of the cab. Rising to his knees, he pulled his rifle back into position, ready to blow Xander Harris to kingdom come.

Just then, another hand snaked out to grab the rifle barrel. Cook turned his head to see the new assailant, only to be met with the butt of a .45 to the center of the forehead. He crumpled in the bed of the truck.

"You dinna expect me to miss this, did you?" Captain MacKenzie said to the unconscious Cook. "Oh well, you just rest there, lad." He removed Cook's ski mask and took out the man's communicator, which he pitched into the shrubs. Quickly and efficiently, he stripped the man of his weapons and bound him with the same kind of cable ties that he had recently freed himself from.

He turned to see Xander staring at him. "That should hold him for a bit," he said. "Help me out here a moment, though." He picked up the Cook, tossed him over his shoulder, turned and carried him back through the parking lot. They came to a silver rental car. "Reach in there and open the trunk, aye?"

Xander followed the man's instructions, being careful not cut himself on the shattered window glass. Mac dropped the soldier into the trunk heavily, and then slammed it shut. Wiping his hands off, he smiled at Xander.

"You can call me Mac," he said. "Now, I'm not sure what the old boys are up to, but I've a feeling that it's no good. There's an old witch woman who's manipulating things, and I think maybe your friend may be over her head a bit."

"You could say that," Xander replied. "You guys have convinced her that a U.S. Congressman is really a demon, and she's up there now getting ready to make the biggest mistake of her life. And if you know some of the guys she's dated, that's saying something."

"Well," said Mac, looking around the lot. "They've not moved yet, so the deed isna done. Let's see if we can intervene, shall we?"

"Giles and Willow are already on it," Xander replied.

"I doubt that," Mac responded. "They probably had hotel security pick them up before they ever got through the lobby. Why don't we go see what we can do about that?"

Mac walked off and Xander, lacking any other ideas, followed.

* * *

Giles and Willow sat in a small room behind the main desk. It normally served as a storeroom, as near as they could tell. But for now, it was a holding cell. Giles stood by the door, listening, while Willow paced up and down. "I can get us out of here," Willow said for the fourth time in the last five minutes.

Giles held up his hand. "They're right outside, and they're armed. Even if you can open this door, we'll never be able to deal with both of them." He listened a few minutes longer. "Just let me think," he said.

"Hey, you," he heard a shout on the other side of the door. "You can't be back here!"

"Oh yeah, why don't you come and get me then?" another voice replied. Xander's voice.

"Watch them," the first voice replied, accompanied by the sounds of hurrying feet. Apparently he was off chasing Xander.

"We're down to one," Giles said. "Open the door."

Willow closed her eyes a moment and muttered an incantation under her breath. The door clicked and popped open a hair. Giles pushed it the rest of the way open and grabbed the guard standing beside it. He punched the big man, who simply grinned at him. Grabbing Giles by the front of the shirt he lifted him up and cocked his fist back. The ham-sized appendage was clearly going to knock the Englishman's lights clean out.

"Faint!" Willow said forcefully, her hand outstretched towards the guard. The word released power, and the guard crumpled to the floor. Giles, for one, was relieved. "We haven't much time," Willow said, and the two ran for the service elevators.

* * *

Buffy stood across from the congressman. Ray had joined him on the couch at her direction. "Why?" she asked.

"Why what?" the congressman replied.

The hand holding the shotgun twitched up. "Don't play stupid with me," she said. "Why are you trying to kill me? Why did you kill Spike?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the congressman replied. "What were you doing with my file?" he asked in return.

"Why were you keeping a file on me?" Buffy countered. "What did it say?"

"On you?" the congressman asked, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"It was filed under Slayer," Buffy countered. "I'm not Rebecca of Sunnydale Farms, you know."

"I'm not sure who you are," said the congressman. "But I do know that you are _not_ the Slayer."

"Wanna bet on that?" Buffy replied.

* * *

Mac raced up the stairs, a .45 caliber pistol in each hand. He wasn't sure that the Harris boy was right about what was happening, but he wasn't about to risk it. He had to reach them in time; he had to stop any bloodshed. Then he had to find out why. It was more than just the honor of his unit, now. The old woman and Sheffield plotting together had stripped him of that. Now it was personal.

He raced up another flight of stairs. He had to be in time to save the congressman. Whether he did or not, he was going after Sheffield next.

* * *

Buffy and the congressman stared at one another. She looked over at the end table by the couch where her amulet lay. "Where'd you get that?" she asked, pointing at it.

"You left it in my office," the congressman replied. "Ray was kind enough to bring it up to me." He made no other move.

"Give it to me," she demanded.

"What does it do?" he asked.

"Put it on and find out," Buffy challenged.

The congressman reached over and picked it up. "Who'd you get it from?" he asked. "Did you get it from the Ring?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Buffy said. "Put it on!" she ordered, and twitched with her shotgun. Something inside her was anxious to complete her mission. She needed to complete it; and she needed to retrieve the amulet. It was like a war inside her, and he heart twisted trying to fight it.

The congressman slipped the amulet over his head. He looked over at Ray and sucked in his breath. "I can see you Ray. I can see the real you," he said, surprised.

"It shows things in their true form," Buffy said. "Now give it to me, and we'll see what it says about you."

The congressman hesitated, but a twitch of Buffy's hand made up his mind. He took the amulet off and tossed it to her. "I don't know what you're hoping to accomplish by this," he said, trying to buy time. Trying to keep her talking.

Buffy caught the amulet but didn't reply to his question. Just holding it made her feel better. It made her feel complete, like something inside of her that she had lost had come back to her. She steadied her breathing and put it on. The effect was instantaneous.

The congressman was no longer there. In his place was the demon she had seen before. The demon in her visions. But it was more than the sight of it that overwhelmed her. Waves of fear spread off of it. Waves of hate buffeted her. She gasped for breath. The emotional toll was overwhelming. It was coming for her; she knew it. It would kill her; she knew that, too. 

Buffy was shaking. She'd never felt this vulnerable. She'd never felt this scared. She wanted to run; she wanted to fight. Everything was overwhelming her. She didn't know what to do, but then she felt the shotgun in her hand. It all suddenly made sense to her. _Complete the mission, she thought. __That will make everything okay._

"Stop," said a voice to her right. There, silhouetted in the doorway, was another figure. Someone to stop her from completing her mission. She was outflanked, and she had only a moment to decide.

Buffy lifted the shotgun and fired.

  



	24. Chapter 23 Escape

**  
** Chapter 23 

The Escape

Sunnydale – May 24th 

Had it been anyone else in the doorway, the congressman would've been dead. But gifted with incredible speed as part of his eternal curse, the vampire Spike moved like lightning. As the Slayer lifted the weapon, Spike streaked down the short hall into the main room of the suite. His momentum, combined with an outstretched hand, knocked Buffy's aim aside. The half-risen congressman saw the projectile race just to his right and embed itself in the wall.

Had the weapon been a normal shotgun, even the deflected aim would have been enough to injure the congressman terminally. But instead of a spreading plume of pellets, the gun fired stakes: wooden stakes at high velocity. Buffy saw this – saw the stake embedded in the wall – and realized in a flash who it was that had actually killed Spike.

"No way, pet," Spike said next to her, glorying in his ferocity, "this bugger is mine!" He cocked his arm back and backhanded the congressman, sending him sailing through the air to his left, nearly to the kitchenette.

The effect on Spike was nearly as impressive. Pain surged through his brain like a hot poker being driven by a freight train. His hands grasped his skull and his back arched violently. He was thrown bodily to the floor by his own anguish, writhing in pain.

Buffy looked at the scene before her as if in a dream. The congressman was lying unconscious ten feet away, felled by a single blow from the vampire. But that didn't jive with what she knew about the demon, whom she still saw and felt. Next to her, Spike writhed in pain. It was the pain that could only be brought on if he attacked a human. But the only one he had attacked was the congressman. And in her hands was a weapon unlike any other; a weapon that had been used to supposedly hunt and kill Spike, who, as it turns out, was very much alive.

"Nobody move, not even a wee twitch," said a new voice in the room. It belonged to the Scottish soldier, MacKenzie. Buffy immediately brought the shotgun up in response.

"You!" she shouted. "You were behind this!" She carefully took aim at the man, just as he pointed his pistol in her direction.

"Mexican standoff," he said. "We're both dead if you don't put that down."

Buffy didn't flinch. "I like my odds better than yours," she said. "Gamble much?"

"More than you do, I think," he replied, but didn't waver.

Giles and Willow came rushing into the room. "Buffy, don't!" Willow called.

"It's the amulet," Giles said, his chest heaving for breath. "Take it off. Destroy it."

Buffy didn't move. To touch the amulet would require releasing hold on her weapon, and she knew she couldn't trust the commandos. "Not until he puts his gun down," she called.

"Do it," Giles said to MacKenzie. "Trust her," he added.

Slowly MacKenzie brought his weapon down, and laid it on the coffee table.

Buffy slowly lowered he weapon, and then reached up to grasp the amulet. Her fingers clenched around it, indecision riddling her thoughts. "Buffy, please," Willow pleaded, desperation in her eyes.

Buffy wasn't sure of many things, but she knew she could trust Giles and Willow. With determination, fighting against her own thoughts screaming at her, she yanked the amulet, snapping the lanyard. Taking a deep breath, resisting all the thoughts rushing through her head, she crushed it.

Suddenly, all of the bindings between her and the amulet were ruptured. The spells that it was endowed with were disrupted. More importantly, the spells that Madame LaFusce had cast over Buffy, spells cast while she was sedated in order to create a deep need to trust its vision, were torn away. Like tendrils being pulled directly from her soul, Buffy felt a thousand pinpricks of pain. In a wordless cry, she, too collapsed.

Ray peeked his head up from behind an end table. "Well ain't that a kick in the pants?"

* * *

Madame LaFusce gasped. The spells were broken. They'd lost control. "Major," she said, he heart palpitating furiously, "send in the men." Sheffield quickly issued a series of orders. Madame LaFusce took a steadying breath. "We must stop them from escaping," she said. Sheffield understood.

* * *

In the tenth floor suite, the three unconscious combatants were being revived. Buffy and Spike woke with smelling salts, at once ready to fight. But gentle words from Giles and Willow calmed them down. The congressman was more difficult to wake, being merely human. But between the first aid kit in the room and a muttered spell from Willow, he finally achieved conciousness.

"Here's the situation as I see it," Giles said. "We've all been played as pawns by Madame LaFusce, and she currently has an SAS commando team at her disposal. Minus one, that is," he added, pointing to Mac.

"Minus two," Mac replied. "Wee Cook is enjoying the trunk of a rental car."

"We're going to need to get out of here," Buffy said. "I'm pretty sure that Madame LaFusce knows that her plan had failed." She paused a moment. "What was her plan, anyway?"

"She wanted you to kill the congressman," Willow supplied hurriedly, "because he's a good guy who's working to make peace between humans and friendly demons. Only, she thinks all demons are evil, and she used the amulet to make you see him as a demon, so you'd do her dirty work for her." She smiled. "But she didn't count on us."

"What I don't understand," the congressman said groggily, "is why she chose you, and why you'd kill me just because you thought I was a demon."

"Like I told you," said Buffy, "I'm the Slayer." The congressman looked up frowning.

"I can assure you that she is," Giles supplied.

"Totally," added Willow. "One-hundred percent. Complete slayage."

"It seems that some of our intelligence in this matter is incorrect," replied the congressman, looking over at Ray. "We need to fix that."

"Later," said Buffy. She took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on the congressman. "Congressman Greene, you have my apologies. But, I have to say, it wasn't just seeing you as a demon. I could feel it; it was overwhelming. Fear, hate, anger, desperation. I was a total psych case. Complete Carrie at the prom, you know. I don't know why, though."

"The vision that the Ring supplied undoubtedly affected more than just your sight," Giles said. "It was complete, hitting not just all your senses but also your emotions as well. I think anyone but the Slayer would have been completely undone by it."

Everyone nodded in general agreement. "Is everyone ready to move," Mac asked. Everyone nodded just as the power went out. "Good," he said, "because I think the lads are on their way."

* * *

Xander poked his head out from under a batch of sheets. He had dived in a laundry bin to avoid the security officer that was chasing him. He could see the man, a mere dozen steps away, looking carefully through the pressing machines in hopes of catching site of him. Carefully, Xander lifted one leg over the edge of the bin. Then drew out the other. He was almost clear when he lost his balance, and he, the bin, and the laundry all went crashing to the floor.

The security officer spun around, catching sight of him immediately. A wicked grin spread across his face. "Got you!" he shouted. That's when the lights went out.

Xander Harris wasn't always the quickest thinking guy on the block, but he knew an opportunity when he saw one. He also had a sneaking suspicion of what this sudden turn of events meant. "Looks like they're going to need the getaway driver," he said quietly. He stood and took a step. "Xander Harris to the rescue," he muttered, just before tripping on a bath towel. Wrenching himself free of the laundry, he took off down the darkened hall, hoping he didn't run into anything too solid.

* * *

"They're running two and two up the staircases." Mac was looking at the blips on the portable command console. "Looks like they've finally figured out that Cook's tied up, and they've sent Jessup to get him. Sheffield's staying put, probably with Madame LaFusce." He looked up at the others, his face grave. "Either way, we're gonna run into at least two of them. The south stair is closer to where your friend Harris left his truck. I'd say we take that route."

Everyone nodded, and moved quickly down the hall. The emergency lights provided a minimum of illumination, and the press of the other hotel residents making their emergency escape slowed their progress even more. They entered the south stair and began to descend, Mac in front holding the command console. He held up his hand and stopped everyone. "They're about three floors down," he whispered. "When I hold up my hand again, I want you all to stop, close your eyes, and cover your ears. Are we clear?" They nodded at him. "Good. Now I know where they are, but they dinna know where we are. So, I got a wee bit of a surprise for'em, aye? Just be prepared."

He began again, leading them down the stairs. Another floor, and then half another. Below he could hear the soldiers shouting to clear the rest of the crowd. He held up his hand. Everyone stopped, closed their eyes, and covered their ears. They heard a _plink_, a _thunk_, and then a _bang_. Then Captain moved in a flash, drawing a large pistol from inside his jacket. They heard it fire twice; not loud, but softly. "C'mon everyone," he yelled.

Buffy was first down the stairs. "What did you do?" she demanded. "This whole thing was about _not_ killing people, remember?" Four half-dressed hotel guests moaned loudly while the two commandos weren't moving at all.

"Don't worry your pretty head none, there," he replied. "I just dropped'em a flash grenade to disorient them a bit, and then hit them with a tranq. The lads aren't dead, just sleeping a bit." He smiled at her, a bright toothy grin. "However, I can assure you that they appreciate the concern, but we better get a move one.  The other team will notice that the lads have stopped and cut across any second now."

Everyone ran down the rest of the stairs. About the third floor, they heard the other commandos enter the stairwell. They were once again being pursued. Mac looked at the console. "Sheffield's coming to meet us," he said, and then forged on. They practically flew out the exit at the bottom, coming out abruptly in the parking lot. A black SUV pulled up a dozen yards away, and Sheffield popped out of it, gun at the ready.

"Secure that door," Mac muttered. Spike turned at the order gave it a vicious kick. The metal door bent with his footprint, effectively jamming it closed. "Good," Mac muttered. "Now, anybody got any ideas for how to get past the Major?"

Just then, Xander's red pickup screeched to a halt between the team and Sheffield. Wasting no time, everyone began diving in the back. "Heads down," Mac called, tossing another flash grenade.

Sheffield opened fire, his rifle riddling the side of Xander's truck with bullet holes. But between the steel of the truck and the load of tool boxes and other construction equipment in the back, no one was hit. Xander hit the gas and peeled out.

The whole extraction had taken only a moment, and the grenade was just hitting the ground as they pulled out. Willow, sensing the opportunity, poked her head up from the back and stretched forth her hand. "_Mangnificium_," she spoke. Magnify.

The flash grenade went off with the power of ten. The concussion knocked Sheffield back a half-dozen yards. Cars in all directions had their windows shattered. The flash was just as intense, blinding Madame LaFusce before she could let off her own spell.

Xander jumped a curve with the big truck, swerved to avoid a fleeing pedestrian, and sideswiped another car. He cut the wheel back and pounded over the shrubs and onto the main roadway. A moving vehicle barely avoided them, and then they were on the road.

"Where to?" he called out to the passengers in back.

"My place," said Spike. "They'll never think to look for us there."

  



	25. Chapter 24 Showdown

**  
** Chapter 24 

Showdown

Sunnydale – May 24th 

"Okay Xander, you go make sure that Tara and Dawn are okay," Buffy said as they unloaded at the graveyard. "Then you and Anya lay low. We'll call you when we know what's going to happen next."

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" he asked, concerned. 

"Nope," she replied. "This is hidey time. Besides, you need to make with some z's. We'll be okay hanging out here for the night."

"Okay," he said. "I'll check on you in the morning." He sped off.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Giles asked.

"He's so tired he's becoming more of a liability than an asset," Buffy replied. "Besides, I'd like to minimize the number of players in the final showdown."

"So you think they'll come for us. Tonight?" He was starting to show signs of strain himself.

"Not a doubt in my mind," she replied. "Now let's get inside."

The two made their way into Spike's crypt and closed the door. Congressman Greene and Ray were sitting in one corner, quietly conversing. Mac was investigating the room, assessing its defensive possibilities. Willow had collapsed near the large, stone coffin that dominated the room. Spike, by comparison, had grabbed a beer and switched on the television.

"So, I heard you shed a tear for me," Spike said to Buffy. "Couldn't bear the thought of being without old Spike, could you?"

"I couldn't bear the thought of somebody other than me doing the deed," Buffy rejoined. "I'm glad I'm still going to get the chance."

"Yeah, yeah, say all you like," he replied. "But if it wasn't for old me, you'd be up the river and Mr. Green Jeans over there would be looking like a stuck pig. The way I see it, the government of this country owes me a debt of gratitude."

"I hate to say it," Giles muttered, "but I believe Spike may be right. Of course, in balance against all the evil he's done, I'm really not worried about owing him too much."

 "I know you," the congressman said suddenly. "You're Hostile Seventeen." The congressman used the designation that the Initiative had assigned him.

Spike looked up sharply. "The name is Spike," he yelled in exasperation. "Not William. Not Hey You. Not Blondie. And Judas Freekin' Priest, not Hostile Seventeen!" He glared at all of them.

"So," the congressman said, "the chip really does work."

"Yes," said Giles. "That's why they needed to get rid of him. They were afraid of exactly what happened. As long as he has that chip, he would be able to tell that you really are human, not demon."

The congressman nodded. "And using the Slayer to do it. Interesting. I thought they were trying to get custody of the Slayer. That's why I've been blocking the request by the Webber Institute."

"The what?" Giles said. "What did you just say?" he asked alarmed.

"The Webber Institute," Congressman Greene repeated. "You saw the file, correct? Well, the hospital that requested the prisoner transfer is owned and operated by the Webber Institute. Do you know it?"

"I should say so," Giles replied. "That's the operating corporation for the Watcher's Council. I was afraid that this was one rogue member, Madame LaFusce. But apparently it reaches well up into the council itself."

"And the RAF," Mac added. "You don't get an SAS team assigned to a project like this just by asking nicely. Somebody is connected."

"Yes, but why?" Giles asked.

"The Millionaire question will have to wait," Buffy said, standing by a window. She turned to the group. "They're here."

* * *

Madame LaFusce and Major Sheffield walked slowly up to the crypt. Sheffield had dispatched his men to form a perimeter. No one was coming in; no one was leaving. The battle was between the two of them and those inside the crypt. He turned to the old woman at his side. Her eyes were healed through her own magic, but around them the skin was bright red with the flash burns.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Sheffield called to the crypt. The door opened, and Buffy emerged.

"You've decided to come play, then?" she asked.

"I've come to dance on your grave," Madame LaFusce hissed.

"Try the jitterbug, it's the easiest on soft earth," Buffy replied. She looked between the two. "Is this all you brought?"

"It's all we need to take care of you," Sheffield said. "And the congressman," he added.

"But if you insist," LaFusce smiled. She took out several crystals from her pocket and cast them on the ground. She held up her hands and murmured briefly. The crystals began to glow, then smoke, and from them emerged a small cadre of demons.

"I thought you didn't like folks who cavorted with demons," Buffy said. "Does your boss know who your playmates are?"

"My Creator knows all," Madame LaFusce laughed. "Demons are not to be used as equals. They are to enslaved or destroyed. They are to be bent to our purposes and then cast into oblivion. These are bound to one purpose, to kill you and then to die."

Buffy nodded. She recognized this method of calling forth demons. It's what Madame LaFusce had used to bring about the 'simulations' in Willow's test. "So the ones you used in the test weren't simulations. They were the real thing. You made Willow fight real demons."

"Yes," Madame LaFusce cackled. "Glorious, wasn't it? But now, we'll see how _you do against them."_

"No problem," Buffy said, walking out to meet the creatures. She pointed at each one. "I think I'll name you Huey, Dewey, Louie, and old Uncle Scrooge." From behind her back, she drew out a battle-axe. "I hope you like carbon steel, boys."

"_Serpentus_ Transformo_," the old Frenchwoman uttered. Transform into a Serpent. Buffy found herself holding a boa constrictor instead. She screeched and dropped it. "You didn't think this was going to be a fair fight, did you?" Madame LaFusce cackled again._

"Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?" a voice called out. "_Fomus__ Revertis," Willow uttered. Revert Your Form. The snake shrank back into an axe. "It's you and me, bitch!" Fire blazed in her eyes._

Sheffield pulled his pistol out to end Willow's interference in a single shot, but a voice brought him up short. "Now, now Major," Mac called. "Why don't you leave the lassies to their game, while we play ours, aye?" Sheffield turned and fired, but Mac moved easily behind a tombstone. "You're going to need to do a bit better than that," he called. At the same moment, he rolled around stone and fired at Sheffield, forcing him to leap away.

The battle was in full swing.

* * *

Spike stood at the window of the crypt, watching, his arms moving in mock participation. "Why can't I get out there?" he asked.

"Because if one of those creatures gets passed Buffy, you need to make sure that it doesn't get to the congressman," Giles replied.

"Then what's your job?" Spike asked.

"Making sure you do yours," Giles replied coldly.

"Yeah," Spike muttered. "Whatever."

"Tell me," Giles said to the congressman, "how did you conclude from the Webber Institute request that they were trying to get custody of Buffy?"

"I didn't think they were trying to get Miss Summers," Congressman Greene replied. "There was another name that came up when we ran the id's of the prisoners they requested. A girl named Faith."

"Tribe mates of mine in Los Angeles told me that she was the Slayer," Ray added.

"She is," Giles replied. "I believe we may both be right in this."

"How can that be," the congressman asked. "There can only be one Slayer. Another is not called until the instant of a Slayer's death."

"True," replied Giles. "Only the advent of CPR has somewhat changed that formula." Years ago, Buffy had been drowned by an evil vampire known as The Master. She was clinically dead, but within moments Xander Harris had administered CPR to revive her. From that action, the world ended up with two Slayers – Buffy and Kendra. When Kendra died, Faith was called. Giles didn't bother to explain it. "Besides," he muttered, "Buffy tends to not play by anyone's rules."

"So there are two Slayers?" Ray muttered, awed.

"Yeah," replied Spike. "And the other one's quite the piece of work. Know what she's in for, don'tcha? Murder. She staked a human and then left him to die." Spike smiled. "She's a hot ticket, though. I hear she tortured poor Wesley Price before she got caught. God, I would've loved to have seen that. Sounds like if the watchers get their way she'll be free for dinner soon. Maybe I should look her up."

"Faith confessed to her crimes, and is serving her sentence to make amends," Giles supplied, miffed at himself for defending her. "The watcher's tried to take her by force once, to terminate her. It sounds like they may be up to that again."

"More like use her," Spike replied. "These guys are nasty, and it sounds like she'll fit right in with them."

"Let's hope not," Giles replied.

* * *

Buffy neatly decapitated the first of the creatures, the one named Dewey. It staggered back, spouting blood, and then collapsed. She allowed her momentum to carry her into Huey, who blocked he strike and backhanded her forcefully. She flew a dozen feet and landed hard. She merely shook it off and flipped back into a fighting stance.

Buffy's adrenaline was pumping hard. She was the Slayer; this is what she did. She was gifted with strength, agility, an iron constitution and remarkable combat sense. She was, in fact, the ultimate fighting machine. Even the hybrid creation Adam had failed to stop her. Granted, she'd had a little help with him. By comparison, though, this was a walk in the park, albeit a creepy, dark, graveyardy sort of a park.

She moved forward to engage Huey again. He was the shortest of the three remaining foes, standing only six-foot-two, not counting his horns. He was well muscled and dressed only in leather straps. "C'mon you Gladiator reject," Buffy taunted. It lunged at her, its big arms swinging in wide arcs. Its fist caught the stone where she'd been standing only a moment before, sending it scattering in showers of sharp fragments. 

Buffy rolled and kicked at his gut, sending him staggering backwards. She moved in and swung the axe at his chest. He jumped back, flinging his arms up to avoid the weapon. Buffy used the momentum of the swing to spin her around, and she planted a high side kick in his face. He went head over heels and landed on a headstone. The sound of his spine snapping was as loud as a gunshot. Buffy separated his head from shoulders to finish the job.

"Who's next?" she asked.

* * *

Sheffield could no longer hear the other battles going on. He'd been following the retreating figure of MacKenzie. He'd been catching glimpses of the figure running ahead, occasionally punctuated by pistol fire. It had been some minutes since he'd last see his former underling, but he knew they were nearing the perimeter the other men had set up. Mac wasn't going to escape this time.

Sheffield crept cautiously among the tombstones. A movement ahead brought him up short. He brought his night vision binoculars up to his eyes, and spied Brody up ahead. The soldier was outfitted in body armor and mask and held his rifle at the ready. "Brody," Sheffield spoke into the communicator. "Have you seen Mac?"

The figure up ahead raised his arm, held up three fingers, and pointed off to his left. _Close, thought Sheffield. _Three meters, too close for Brody to even speak_. He had him. He moved around to the left and motioned Brody to come in on a pincer move. Carefully, he came around until he heard breathing._

He popped around a large memorial statue, his pistol at the ready. There, on the ground, was the bound and gagged figure of Brody. Sheffield had been deceived! He spun to engage Mac, now wearing Brody's body armor and mask. Too late. The butt of Brody's rifle caught the Major across the jaw, then again in the gut, and then once again. Sheffield crumpled.

Mac stood over the man and pulled off his stocking mask. "Well, Major, I'd say that just about settles it for us. I wonder how the lassies are doing."

  



	26. Chapter 25 Witch's Trial

**  
** Chapter 25 

Witch's Trial

Sunnydale – May 24th 

Willow and Madame LaFusce floated over the graveyard. Each was surrounded by a blazing orb of energy; Willow's was blue, Madame LaFusce's red. Willow hadn't known the spell a moment before, but as soon as she saw Madame LaFusce cast it, she understood it and duplicated it. The action took the old woman by surprise, but not for long. She began a relentless assault on Willow.

Whips of fire; knives of ice; acid wind and poison rain. One after another was hurled at Willow. She adapted. As each hit her bubble of power, she felt its energy and subtly manipulated the shield around her to counter it. It was exhausting her.

Willow knew that she had no choice, she needed to go on the offensive. She could reproduce any of the spells that Madame LaFusce had thrown at her. The old woman would be ready for that, though; Willow was sure of it. She searched around desperately, looking for inspiration. All she saw, though, were tombstones and trees.

A thousand red lights suddenly swarmed around her, attacking at her shield. Each one that hit was a pinprick of pain for Willow. The young witch tried to focus, but her concentration was waning. She looked down at the ground below them, covered in tombstones.

_Physics_, she thought. _I bet the old bag hasn't studied physics._ Inspiration dawned in her mind. "_Gravatis__ reversum," she intoned, focusing on her desire. Reverse Gravity._

The ground virtually erupted with grave markers. A dozen ripped themselves from the grass and hurtled upwards at the old Frenchwoman. The move took the old woman by surprise; her glowing red shield was attuned to repel direct magical attacks. This was an indirect attack; the actual threat to her was physical.

The stones broke and splintered as they hit the shield, and more than few shards broke through. It took only a moment for Madame LaFusce to readjust her magic, but not before she was buffeted by the debris, taking several bruises in the process. She moved away from the storm of rock, drifting close to a large maple tree.

The attack had given Willow a moment to concentrate, and with a brief moment of thought, she dispelled the remaining red lights of the elder witch's attack. Willow looked to press her advantage, seeing the old woman drifting near the maple tree. Willow gathered her energy and focus, then spoke a single word.

"_Ignitum," she shouted at the tree. Ignite. The maple responded by bursting into flame. The flames leapt up against the other woman's shield, through its protection, and burned her flesh. The old woman howled in pain. Willow moved closer._

"_Dispersius!" Disperse. The older witch punctuated the spell by thrusting her arms downwards. Her red ball of energy spread suddenly in all directions. It shattered the flaming tree and smothered the flames. It also hit Willow full force._

The young witch was sent reeling across space, the energy of her sphere quickly fading. She lost control of her flight and went plummeting to the ground. She retained enough of her blue energy to keep her from being squashed by the impact, but the effects were still severe. 

Willow felt her left wrist break, and at least one knee twist. The wind was knocked out of her and she slid along the grass like a rocket propelled mass of blue sparks. She careened through several grave markers, the sharp rocks cutting her as they splintered. Eventually she came to rest against a large memorial … barely conscious.

* * *

"Spike!" yelled Buffy as she swung her axe at Louis. "Here comes Uncle Scrooge!" Uncle Scrooge, in fact, showed a much greater resemblance to a T-Rex than an old duck. It had strong hind legs, and a long tail it used for balance. Its head was oblong, allowing it a large mouth filled with razor sharp teeth. Unlike the dinosaur, though, it had fully grown arms that ended in massive clawed hands.

Rearing back, it slammed one of these open-handed against the crypt door. The door splintered off its hinges, and Uncle Scrooge dipped its head for a look inside. It sniffed several times, and then slowly walked in. It looked about for the warm human flesh it smelled, but could not see them.

It could neither see nor smell the undead Spike, perched precariously above the doorway. However, as soon as the vampire dropped down on the creature's neck, it knew he was there. Spike made a fist and slammed it at the creature's eye. In reaction, it pulled its head back out the doorway. This succeeded in scraping Spike off with the lintel, and dropping him down to _thud_ in front of the massive demon.

"Oh Bollocks!" Spike muttered. Taking inspiration from the idea, he looked at the creature's underside to determine if he could make use of that particular vulnerable target. His gaze was diverted, though, when the massive head of teeth moved straight in front of his.

It spread a vicious facsimile of a grin as it sniffed him. A low growl escaped its throat. It lifted its head up slightly, opened its jaws, and came crashing down.

Spike, for his part, was no fool. As soon as the head of the thing bobbed up, Spike scrambled under it. Wiggling between its back legs as its jaws gnashed down onto concrete. He rolled free of its feet and tail, and quickly looked for Buffy. The creature, for its part, pulled itself back out and eyed Spike angrily.

Buffy had lost the battle-axe and was engaged hand-to-hand with Louie. A noxious looking blob of a thing, it screeched horrifically as it swung its arms at her. Spike ran up behind the fat blob and reached around to grasp its head. A quick yank snapped the demon's neck in one move.

"Trade you," Spike said, jerking his thumb at Uncle Scrooge, who was making his way towards them.

"Thanks," said Buffy dryly. She took several steps over to her axe and picked it up. Uncle Scrooge reared up and screamed a horrific, primordial screech. Then it set its head down like a bull and charged. Buffy cleaved its skull with a single blow.

* * *

The old woman walked slowly up to Willow. She limped stiffly. He disheveled hair fell across her face. "You think you're so smart," Madame LaFusce said. "You think you can compete with me? You are nothing. Nothing!" He voice had reached a fever pitch. Her eyes were wild with anger, her mouth twisted in fury.

Willow looked up at the old woman. She could barely breathe; she was holding to consciousness by a thin thread. She pointed a finger at the old woman's scarf. "_Serpentus__ Transformo," she said quietly. She had learned the old woman's spell._

The scarf twisted itself into a viper and struck at the Madame LaFusce's face. But the old woman was still wiley. She grasped the head of the snake and yanked it off her shoulders.

"_Rigidus," she uttered. Become Rigid. The snaked transformed into a long wooden staff. The old woman cackled. "Thank you, whelp," she hissed. Then she swung the staff over her head and pointed it at the ground next to Willow. "_Spiritus___ Disturbo," she uttered. Disturb the Spirits._

Spectral hands erupted from the ground and seized Willow. She could see the rotting flesh through on the translucent hands. She gagged at the smell as they seized hold of her. Willow looked back at the cackling old Frenchwoman, pointing her staff at the ground.

She took a deep breath, the cold of the grave already touching her body. She couldn't think the spell clearly, but she knew what she wanted. "Rose Bloom," she said, sending her desire and power at the staff.

The staff instantly bloomed roses. They unfolded rapidly at the top of the staff, erupting through the wood. And with the blossoms came the thorns. Large, razor sharp thorns erupted along the length of the shaft, piercing the old woman's hands. She screamed and dropped the staff. A dozen deep puncture marks cut through her hands. The old woman was bleeding freely.

She pointed her bloody hand at Willow and the spectral hands. "Take her!" she cried. "Take her to hell!" She held her hand steady, forcing her will on the spirits of the grave.

The grave chill spread through Willow. Her breathing became shallow. She was quickly losing hope. The ground began to split beneath her, waiting to swallow her. The ground was eager to embrace her in death.

And in that moment, Willow sensed something else. Death was not the only thing that stalked the graveyard. Another spirit fed on the bodies in this ground. Willow pointed at the old woman's hand. "Decay," she cried.

Her voice was no longer hers alone. Willow's eyes had gone black, and her voice was a chorus of the tortured souls that lived here. All of the power left to her was channeled into that single word; that single spell.

In a place like Sunnydale, sitting on top of a hellmouth, a spell like that had special power. Being cast in a graveyard, with the voices of disturbed spirits to aid it, redoubled its force. And for a creature like Madame LaFusce, a woman whose soul was already decayed with fear and anger, the spell was robust and virulent.

As Madame LaFusce watched, the blood on her hand turned black and congealed. Then the flesh began to putrify. Within seconds, the hand had turned gangrenous. And then, with increasing speed, it began to rot as in a grave.

Madame LaFusce's eyes were fixed on it, widening in horror. Then she screamed. She screamed and ran from Willow. She continued to scream for a very long time.

Without Madame LaFusce to enforce her will on them, the spectral hands subsided, returning to their uneasy rest. Willow lay, half swallowed in earth, shaking with a chill in her soul.

* * *

Sheffield's eyes snapped open. He had heard the call of the witch woman, heard it in his mind. It had awakened him, and he knew they had to leave. He had lost control. Slowly, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a small paper placket. Inside was a small crystal and an oily black powder. He turned his gaze to Mac.

Captain MacKenzie never knew what hit him. His back was turned to Sheffield, on guard for the approach of other members of the team. Behind him, Sheffield tossed the placket at Mac's back. He spoke the word of power, and the packet exploded. It drove the crystal shard like a gunshot. It penetrated through the body armor and exited the other side. Mac collapsed, a hole blown through his body.

Sheffield struggled to his feet. Taking his knife, he cut Brody's bonds. He eyed Mac with the knife, but Brody grabbed his hand. "Retreat, Major?" he asked.

"Yes," responded Sheffield. "Let's pull out."

They left the prone figure of Captain MacKenzie bleeding in the grass.

  



	27. Chapter 26 All's Well that Ends

**  
** Chapter 26 

All's Well that Ends

Sunnydale – May 25th 

"Well, he may know a bit o' magic, but the lad can't aim it for crap," Mac told the group at the Magic Box. The crystal had gone through his shoulder, missing all the vital organs. He'd bled quite a lot in the graveyard before the Scooby gang had found him. But he refused hospitalization and instead talked Anya through cleaning and wrapping it. His right arm was bound to his side now, suspended in a sling.

Willow hadn't fared so well. The chill of the grave had yet to leave her. Her skin had an unhealthy pallor, and her eyes were sunken. She gazed out at nothing most of the time, only rarely coming back to the present. The battle with Madame LaFusce had left her haunted.

Tara did her best to care for her. She wrapped her in blankets and sat her in a corner of the meeting table. She brought her a cup of tea and sat next to her, stroking her hair. "Here's some tea, baby," she said. "Drink it up, it'll help."

Willow forced a smile at her love. "Thank you, sweetie," she said softly. "It smells all sweet and minty."

"Yeah," Tara whispered, kissing Willow's brow. "Nothing's too good for you." She continued to stroke her hair, and looked up at the others. "How long," she stuttered, and paused to collect herself. "How long will she be like this?"

Giles looked at Willow carefully. "A touch from the grave is a terrible thing. Some people never recover from its sensation." Tara started to protest, but Giles held up his hand to stop her. "But," he continued, "Most people do recover, given time, patience and love. You'll just need to keep her focused on the here and now." He smiled at them. "And the tea helps."

They all lapsed into a companionable silence for a few moments. The congressman had returned in the morning in time to hold his conference at the Red Lion. The safehouse where the SAS team had been hiding had been cleared out. There was no sign of them. The portable command console that Mac had showed no GPS signals anywhere in the area.

"The team is probably falling back to some secondary mission, given that the primary mission has failed," Mac said. "I have a suspicion about what that may be, and I've got to try to stop them."

"You think they're going after Faith," Giles said matter-of-factly.

"Aye," he said. "It would make sense."

"Angel needs to know," Buffy said quietly. "I'll take you to meet him."

"Angel? Who's that?" Mac asked.

"Long story, bad ending," Xander supplied. "Let's not go there." He waved his hand in dismissal. He stopped abruptly, noticing the handcuff still attached to his wrist. "And does anyone know how to get these things off?" he asked extravagantly.

"Let me see that, laddie," Mac said. He looked at the cuff with his good hand, and then shifted to place it in the one held by the sling. He reached up and snatched a pin from Anya's hair. With two quick movements, he opened the cuff. "Give me the other one," Mac said, and in a few moments it too was off.

"Oh my God," said Xander, rolling his eyes back, "I can feel my wrists again." He looked up at Mac. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you ever need somebody to shine your boots for you, just let me know. Now that I have wrists again and all."

Mac shook his head and laughed. 

"They had us from the very beginning," Buffy said absently. "Everything was planted well in advance." She shook her head in disbelief. "The attack on Spike, the CD-ROM, everything. Even my little conversation with Vic was phony."

"Well, not exactly," Spike said. "All the stuff Vic told you about the management was true. And the parts about me, of course. Well, the flattering parts anyway." He shrugged. "He just lied about an executive coming to visit, to make you think it was the congressman. I just hope this doesn't bring too much attention to this little burgh of ours. Sunnydale can't deal with it." He got up and walked towards the door. "I think I'll head back to my place. Beats hangin' out with you lot."

Mac watched him go. "Quite a piece of work," he said. "Can't say as I'll miss him."

"Some of us are sorry that you did miss him," Xander said. "At least you nailed his coat."

"True enough," Mac said. Turning to Buffy he said, "We better get going."

"Right," she said, and got up. "See you all later."

Buffy and Mac left, followed closely by Xander and Anya. "Let me take you home and give you the big hero treatment," Anya was saying as she left. Giles didn't even want to consider the implications.

Willow looked up from her tea to stare at Giles. "What do you think happened to Madame LaFusce?" she asked. A ghost of revulsion played across her face.

"I don't know, Willow," Giles said. He didn't know what had happened in the witches' duel. Some powerful magic had been used, but to what cost he wasn't sure. "You're lucky to be alive. You went one-on-one against an incredibly powerful witch. It's a testament that you made it through, and I think she must have survived also. Somehow, though, I think this Arinoth character will not take kindly to her failure."

* * *

Madame LaFusce put down the quill pen. She had just finished reporting all that had transpired to the Creator of the Circle. The Ring Maker. Arinoth. The corruption of her flesh had continued unabated. It had spread across her right arm, shoulder, and the right half of her chest. In mere hours, it would take reach her heart.

She had nothing left to lose, nothing left to fear. If Arinoth chose to take her life, it would only be less painful than what she suffered now. So she told him all, writing slowly and deliberately with her left hand. It had taken a long time. Before she was halfway done, she was coughing up blood with wretched shaking, for the spell had reached her lungs. But she completed the report.

Her redemption was in the last line of the report. "Sheffield has taken his men to free the Slayer. Project Eve will be completed." It was her last act in command of the SAS team. They would go to L.A. and retrieve the girl from the penitentiary; they would bring her to the test site. Her mission – the real mission – would be fulfilled.

She had set out to do two things. The first had been to see whether or not the Amulet of Arinoth would be effective with a Slayer. That had been proven to be true. Had the SAS team managed to kill the vampire with the chip in his head, the second objective would have been achieved. Killing the congressman would have removed the impediment to the peaceful transfer of the second Slayer, Faith, to the Institute. Failing that, the Institute would still have their Slayer. The mission objective would be achieved.

She had told the Creator about everything that had happened, every detail of the battle with the other witch. She had told him everything she could remember, everything she'd felt, everything she'd thought. He would need to know.

She waited. His reply would come soon.

* * *

Spike returned to his crypt by way of the sewers. He had stopped to steal a bottle of Jack Daniels from the basement of the liquor store. He pick-pocketed a pack of cigarettes from another vampire of his acquaintance. He'd even managed to pop into the bottom floor of the hospital for a bag of O negative. All in all, he was feeling grand.

That all changed when he walked into his crypt. Someone was there. He looked around, walking slowly. "Who's there?" he called. "I know there's someone there. Come out." He paused. "You don't know who you're dealing with," he said threateningly.

"Actually, I do," came a voice. "Know who I'm dealing with, that is."

Spike walked around the corner to see someone sitting in his favorite chair. The figure was dressed in an immaculate suit – deep gray, with a black shirt and a gray tie. His face was black. Not black like a charcoal – black like shadow. No features were perceivable but his eyes. His hair, if it could be called that, was flame. It flickered in the darkness.

"Good evening, Spike," said the figure. "You've been a very busy boy, now haven't you?"

"Who wants to know?" Spike said with bravado. Inside, though, his insides were churning.

"You can call me Mr. Gray," the figure said. "I'm with Executive Management."

* * *

The quill picked itself up and began to write. "Excellent work," it wrote out. "Rest well, your sacrifice will not be in vain."

Madame LaFusce smiled. She had completed her mission; she had furthered the cause. With a last effort, she uttered the spell the stopped her own heart.

On the other side of the ocean, Arinoth put his quill down. He turned to the Fourth Speaker, his face serious. "She is dead, but we will have the girl," he said.

"And who will replace Madame LaFusce at the circle?" the Fourth Speaker asked.

"I don't know yet," Arinoth replied, "but Miss Rosenberg shows definite promise." He paused for a moment. "Number Four," he said, "inform the Brigadier that we will have his proof in a week. Then get to California; we'll be conducting the tests there."

"As you wish, Creator," the Fourth Speaker reported.

"And one more thing," Arinoth said. "Tell Mr. Trax that we have a spy in the institute. Someone warned the congressman about us, and I'd like to know who."

* * *

In a small town, halfway between L.A. and Sunnydale, Buffy pulled into an abandoned gas station. A tall dark figure stood by an old car in the shadows of the garage. He made no move to come out into the Sun. "Stay here," Buffy said to Mac. She walked over to the figure.

They embraced briefly, and spoke for a long time. Then they embraced again, and Buffy returned to her car. "That's Angel," she said. "He's expecting you."

"Thanks lassie," Mac said.

"Good luck," she replied. "You're going to need it."

Mac walked a few paces away and then turned back to her. "You did fine, Lass," he said.

"It doesn't feel that way," she replied.

"You asked me if I gambled much. Remember?" He asked. She nodded. "Well, lass, I do. It's a highland tradition, you know. And I tell you something, no one wins when the odds are stacked against you like that. The house had you beat all the way, but you dinna give up." He took a step closer to her. "You dinna give up, lass, and you won. Against the watcher's council, an SAS team, and God alone knows what else. No one else on this green Earth of ours could've done that."

"Really?" she asked, slightly flattered.

"Really," he said. "You won, lass. You saved the Congressman's life, Willow's life, and even my life. You did good, take every victory when you get it."

"Thanks," Buffy said, and smiled at him. And for the first time in a long time, her smile reached all the way to her heart.

_Continued in_ **_Angel: Project Eve - The Ring of Arinoth Book 2_**

Available at:   ?storyid=1472500 

  



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